The Other Side of the Story
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: Dean realized that maybe every story had two sides. That maybe for everything he loved about the hunt, there was something to hate about it. Set S1
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Other Side of the Story

Summary: Dean realized that maybe every story had two sides. That maybe for everything he loved about the hunt, there was something to hate about it. For every time he relished offing a werewolf, there was risk of something worse-something like _this_. And just because he wanted to focus on the positive didn't mean that Sam was wrong for focusing on the negative. Set during S1.

A/N: I wrote this as thanks to a certain special lurker who was kind enough to listen to me rant. She's read this, which is good, since I wrote it last year! Thanks go geminigrl11 for the beta, sendintheclowns for the hand holding, and my lurker for the inspiration. It takes place in S1 by request. This is the first part of four.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

-o-

CHAPTER ONE

When Dean was sixteen, he held a gun in his hands and fired. It wasn't the first time he'd fired a gun, but it was the first time he'd shot to kill. His hands were sweaty, his aim shaky, and there was a flush of adrenaline moving up and down his skin, lifting the hairs on the back of his arm and sending his heart jackhammering in his chest.

Safety off. One, two, three.

A screech, an inhuman growl, then a crash and fall, and the night was still and silent once again.

Dean didn't blink, didn't think to blink or even breathe. It was his father who broke the silence. He walked past Dean, his own gun still in his hand. He went to the fallen body, poking at it tentatively with his foot.

His dad looked at him, his face shadowed in the moonlight that seeped through the trees.

"Your first shot was wide," his father said. "Your second low."

Dean swallowed. "Yeah?"

Then his dad grinned. "Third one right through the heart."

And, just like that, Dean felt a rush of pride, of satisfaction, and he didn't even mind the fact that it was freak-ass cold outside or that he hated the dirty work of torching bodies. Because this was his kill, his _first_ kill, and yeah, that was something like pride in his father's voice, and Dean couldn't wait to tell it all to Sam, who was still sitting back in the car, locked up warm and safe with a flashlight and a book.

Sam didn't know what he was missing.

Dean just knew that for him, he'd never miss out on this again. Not if he could help it.

-o-

"A werewolf, Sammy," Dean said, hitting Sam with the rolled up paper again. "Freakin' _werewolves_."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah," he said, glowering at his computer screen. "I heard you the first time."

Dean snorted, flopping on the bed and resting against the headboard. "So, why aren't you a little more excited? I mean, we've been doing ghost after ghost and that's all nice and all, but it's getting a little boring."

The look Sam gave him was a cross between annoyance and weariness. He'd been researching the case for a few hours now, and he'd known a werewolf was one of the more viable options. Dean's verification of the eyewitness reports and the tufts of hair left on one of the scenes had confirmed it. So, it wasn't that Sam didn't agree with Dean that it was, in fact, a werewolf. It just that he didn't see much to get excited about. A werewolf was important to get rid of, sure, but it had only been _five months_. Since their dad had disappeared and since Jessica had died.

He couldn't dwell, though. Not now. He pursed his lips instead. "I didn't realize we did it because it was fun."

"Not all of us have the pleasure of being a stick in the mud like you," Dean grumbled, turning on the TV and beginning to flip.

Sam sighed. Dean meant well, but sometimes it seemed like he forgot. "I just know what we're supposed to be doing."

"Yeah, saving people. Hunting things."

"The family business, I know," Sam said. It was a line he knew well-too well. And it was true and fine, but the family business was why he'd left. Though it was his means to an end now, his end to avenge Jessica. To _end this_. "It's just...I don't know."

Dean groaned. "Dude, you _know_ we're going to find Dad."

"Hunting werewolves doesn't feel like finding Dad," Sam said, and it didn't. It felt like wasting time, killing time, just twiddling his thumbs while whatever killed Jessica was free to do whatever it wanted. Sam couldn't forget that. _Ever. _

"Well, we're here already," Dean pointed out with a shrug, looking back at the TV.

Sam clenched his jaw. "Because you wanted to come here."

"Um, yeah," Dean said. "This town has a string of six maulings over the last three months. You know, people _dying_. So, I figured since, you know, we're not exactly making headway with Dad-"

"We're not exactly trying," Sam interrupted. "Joshua said he talked to Dad three months ago. That's something-"

"Dude, _three months ago_," Dean said. "We followed up, checked out Dad's case and found nothing. Joshua doesn't know where Dad is. Caleb doesn't know where Dad is. Pastor Jim doesn't know where Dad is. The cell phone company doesn't know where Dad is and I tried every alias I could think of that Dad might have registered under. The guy doesn't want to be found."

"I don't care," Sam snapped.

Dean grunted. "Like that's a surprise."

Sam looked down, and willed himself to stay calm. Picking fights with Dean wouldn't get him what he wanted.

Besides, Dean was right. They _had_ tried. They'd tried all the contacts-that Sam knew of, anyway-and they'd tried the cell phone numbers and the credit card aliases-anything they could think of. But their dad was just...gone. Missing. By choice. And it was beginning to grate on Sam's nerves.

How could their dad just be _gone_? How could he just ignore their phone calls and their attempts to reach him? How could he just not be there? How could he disappear right when Sam was ready to admit that he needed help, that he needed _him_? Because Sam still saw Jessica every night in his dreams, and he had an ache in his heart that just never went away, and their dad had to know _something_. Coincidences didn't exist. Their dad going missing, Jessica dying-it all meant something-so, why the hell was their old man bailing on them right when Sam was ready to fall in line?

Dean sighed, flipping the TV off. "Dad has his reasons, Sammy."

"Yeah?" Sam asked, chewing at his lip. "Then why'd you come get me at Stanford?"

Dean pressed his lips together, throwing his legs back over the side of the bed. "I didn't say I had to like them."

"Yeah, but you never question them," Sam said, slumping in his seat and clicking a link idly on his laptop.

"You going to let people die just to be contrary?"

Six maulings, all missing their hearts. Looked like a wolf attack, maybe dogs, only too precise. Too planned. And what kind of wolf just eats the heart?

More than that, what kind of wolf only strikes during one week of every month that just happens to coincide with the lunar cycle?

The full moon was coming. Six people in a morgue and a werewolf still on the loose.

It was a cruel truth. Vengeance could wait.

This couldn't.

Sam closed his computer and rallied his resolve. "We have to find where our wolf is holed up," he said.

A smile crept across Dean's face, and he flopped back. "There's my favorite geek," he said.

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Blind faith or not, Dean loved this kind of stuff. Always had. Always would. If it didn't feel so much like treading water, Sam might not have even begrudged his brother that much.

But this wasn't about Dean. It wasn't even about Sam. It was about six dead people in the morgue and a werewolf on the loose. He'd lost Jess. He didn't have to let other people know what that felt like. Not tonight.

He sighed, shaking his head, picking up his notes again. "You're such an ass," he said.

Dean smirked, turning the TV back on again. "Who cares?" he asked. "A werewolf, Sammy. Do you know how awesome that is? Fur and full moons-"

"Which is starting up again next week, by the way."

Dean shrugged. "Which is why you'd better figure out where our wolf is before he has the chance to strike again."

Sam glared, but Dean wasn't paying any attention to him, which really seemed about typical at this point. That was just Dean, and Sam almost envied his ability to _enjoy_. To be _happy_. The contentment his brother took from simple things-it was something so very _Dean_ and, sometimes, Sam wished he could just feel it, too.

But that wasn't hunting for Sam. It never had been. Not since he'd learned the truth when he was eight years old. Hunting was everything dark and wrong in his life. It was lies and scary truths and monsters and death and betrayal. Right now, it was his means to an end. The things that had made him happy, the things he had staked his entire relationship with his family on, were gone. School, friends, Jess, normal, _safe_-it was all gone now.

Sam shook his head to himself, and opened his laptop once again. Priorities. It was a constant battle. This wasn't bringing Jess back, this wasn't finding their father, but right now, this night, it was all he could do, and Sam could only hope it would be enough to keep his nightmares at bay.

-o-

Dean didn't really believe in God or even some greater good. He didn't really buy into karma and he certainly had no time for anything like destiny. But this hunt was making him reconsider it, if only for the next week.

Because _werewolves_.

They were hunting a werewolf.

Someone out there certainly liked Dean to give him a werewolf. He had his car on the road in the middle of the night, his little brother riding shotgun, the arsenal full and prepped in the trunk, and a werewolf to kill.

Which, seriously, he needed right about then. Ever since his dad had up and disappeared on him, life had been nothing but one blow after the next. Sure, Sam was back with him, but the circumstances weren't exactly ideal. Seeing Sam's girlfriend on the ceiling had been hard on both of them, and seeing Sam willing to die in that fire right alongside her?

Well, that certainly hadn't been a picnic either.

And Dad was still missing-by choice, no less-and no matter what he told Sam, that wore on Dean. A lot. He'd given his entire life to that man, he'd trusted him more than he'd trusted anything, and to have him leave? To have him ditch by _choice_? Was more than a little stressful and more than a lot insulting.

Not that he could tell Sam that. The kid was one step away from insubordination on the best of days, and considering Sam's almost obsessive mode of grief since they'd blown out of Stanford, Dean couldn't take the risk of venting his frustrations on Sam.

So, yeah, he needed a werewolf right about then. Something big, hairy, and freaky that he could plug full of silver. The best damn therapy he could think of.

For that, Dean could spare a moment to be a little grateful to whatever cosmic force had smiled benevolently on him.

"You're glowing," Sam said, sounding a little incredulous.

Dean blinked, glancing over at his brother. "Dude, I've heard that, but usually just from chicks after-"

Sam made a face. "I don't want to know."

Dean shrugged. "You said it."

"I meant, you're excited," Sam said. "I mean, giddy. I haven't seen you this giddy since, well-"

Since before Sam went to Stanford, probably. His baby brother had missed a hell of a lot in the last four years, and their time together had had its moments, but hunting down their father and the thing that had killed their mom and Jessica didn't exactly make for a lighthearted road trip.

Dean shifted a little, turning his eyes back to the road. "I told you, man-"

"Werewolves," Sam concluded, rolling his eyes. "I know."

But Sam didn't know. Sam didn't know what a relief it was to hunt something clear and straightforward. To know exactly what to expect and to understand just what needed to be done. Simple and freaky-assed and he'd done it before and he'd do it again. Hunting a werewolf was the epitome of what Dean did. It had been his first hunt, and it would always be the one he was comparing everything else to. A true test of his mettle, one that he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he could handle.

Saving people, killing things, getting an ego boost and a high all at once.

"Werewolves," Dean agreed. "You sure about the location?"

Sam looked down at his map again. "All the victims have been found in this general vicinity. Around the edges of these woods. At least three of the victims were reported going into the woods around dusk. Apparently there's a nice walking trail."

"Why would people go walking in the woods at night?"

"It's not far from a campground," Sam said. "The walking trails there are very popular and even have well lit check points."

Dean nodded, shifted his hands on the wheel. "Which makes it like a buffet for our wolf."

"I guess," Sam said. "But it's weird, you know?"

"As if you expect a man wolfing out in the moonlight to be _normal_."

Sam shook his head. "No, I mean, it just seems kind of sudden."

"Maybe our wolf just moved to town," Dean said. "And who knows, these things have to get started somewhere."

Sam didn't disagree, but it didn't take college boy training to know that Sam wasn't convinced.

"Besides, these things have to stay on the run a little bit," Dean pointed out. "Just because they're supernatural killers doesn't mean that they don't know a thing or two about not getting caught. Survival instincts."

"I know, I know," Sam relented. Then he sighed. "It just feels, I don't know. Weird."

"It's a werewolf, Sammy," Dean said. "Is it supposed to feel normal?"

"So, the fact that these killings come out of nowhere, no prior history, no other trail, doesn't bother you?"

A lot of things bothered him. His brother's refusal to just listen and take an order bothered him. His dad's inability to answer a phone bothered him. The alarming prevalence of STDs bothered him. But a werewolf coming out of the woodwork for the first time? Did not bother him.

Well, it bothered him, but at least that had a quick fix. Unlike the rest of his all-too-screwed up life.

He flashed Sam a winning grin, wide and purposeful and un-freakin-questionable. "No," he said. "It doesn't."

There was a finality to it that even Sam couldn't argue with. Sometimes, Dean thought, if he just believed his own damn lies, that was all he needed.

The fact that Sam shut up for the rest of the car ride-well, chalk another one up to the great divine being that Dean was pretty sure didn't exist, because tonight? Miracles sure as hell happened with a quiet little brother, some good tunes, and a werewolf to plug full of holes.

-o-

No matter how hard Dean tried, something just didn't feel right. They'd prepped for the hunt with their usual luster, cleaned the guns, sharpened a knife or two, looked over the map another five times. They'd laid out the plan of attack, a couple of contingencies, and did a brief rundown of their cover and even an emergency check over hospital routes and the quickest way out of town. By the time Dean had pulled the Impala to the woods they'd honed in upon, everything was in order.

So why didn't it feel right?

Dean thought it was so damn simple. And, okay, maybe it was. All the evidence did point to a werewolf, after all. The lunar cycle was a dead giveaway. Maybe old habits died hard-Sam just didn't know how to quiet that questioning in his head, how to make himself believe inherently in things that depended on what other people told him and what other people believed.

It was just his default setting. Sam figured it had started out early enough, that kid-like quality of just wanting to know why, why, _why_?

But when all his _whys_ were deferred, when the few answers he got all felt like lies, then Sam had started asking in earnest. Why did they move so much? Why was Dad gone so often? Why did they live in motels? Why didn't they use their real names sometimes? Why didn't they have a mommy?

Sam knew something was wrong. He was pretty sure he always had, and, yet, they hadn't told him. His dad, Dean: they had just lied. Told him one lie after another until Sam found out for himself.

That Christmas was the last day Sam had really trusted in anything other than what he could confirm with his own mind.

Until Jess. Jess had made him change. Forced him to by the very fact that she was so good and so pure and so honest. Living with her, being with her, Sam was more vulnerable than he'd ever been in his life, but he'd felt so _safe_.

But that had gone up in flames, along with the rest of Sam's trust.

Sometimes Sam wished he could turn it off, but asking questions was the only way he'd ever gained anything of value, any truth of substance.

So, it all seemed right-Dean had all his reasons and all his facts lined up, but, standing behind the Impala's open trunk, watching his brother dole out the weaponry, Sam couldn't shake that feeling that something was just wrong.

The night was cool, only a few stars winking in the blackness above. The woods loomed in front of them, deep and dark. The Impala was alone in the small parking lot, which was what Sam had hoped for. The moon was peaking through the trees, which meant their wolf was already in full form, and Sam could only hope that people were heeding the warning signs he and Dean had planted at the last parking lot.

Dean pocketed one last gun before rolling his shoulders. "You ready for this?"

Sam's mind flashed to Jessica on the ceiling, his father's angry voice telling him to get out, Dean standing in front of his apartment saying he didn't want to do this alone, and Sam had no choice, had maybe never had a choice, not since Christmas when he was eight when he discovered that truth and volition were fledgling childhood fantasies.

"Yeah," Sam said, feeling the weight of his own gun heavy in his hand. "Let's do this."

Dean closed the trunk, and Sam swallowed back his doubts as he followed his brother.

Dean's flashlight sent a ray of light bobbing along the trail, and Sam pointed his to the opposite side, providing a good sheath of light to lead them deeper. It was tense between them, forced silence, mouths shut and fingers tightened on the triggers. Werewolves were fast, Sam remembered. Fast and cunning. Natural born killers, though there was nothing natural about them at all.

But a bullet through the heart. One shot was all it took to end the killing spree. Easier than a ghost. Even easier than finding Dad.

Dean's pace was careful but quick, and Sam could see the set of his brother's shoulders in anticipation. Dean had coached him on this, with almost a gleeful attention to detail. That werewolves didn't really care about stealth. They didn't care about the element of surprise. They had five days, a week at most, to do their killing, before they had to wait another lunar cycle for the chance. It was about gore and blood, violence through and through. Werewolves didn't need to plot and plan. They just needed a running head start on their claws.

Which was why they had planned meticulously.

More importantly, it was why they were armed and ready to fire.

Sam licked his lips, a chill shivering up his spine.

He'd never hunted one before. Dean had. Their dad had. Sam had read enough, researched enough. It was straightforward. It was-

Sam's breath seemed to freeze in his mouth, puffing out in front of him with a clarity that surprised him. When had it gotten so cold? Was he really just losing his touch?

Dean was moving forward, flashlight skimming across the path, when Sam felt the hairs on his neck rise. Something was coming, something was-

"Dude," Dean hissed, glancing at him. "I can hear you breathing all the way up here. Just chill or you're going to scare the wolf away with your Darth Vader breathing techniques."

Sam glared, even though it was dark. "Shut up," he muttered.

"That's what I'm saying," Dean whispered. "With all your breathing back there, it's damned distracting."

"Gee, fine," Sam shot back. "I'll try _not _breathing for awhile then, and see if that improves our odds of a successful hunt."

Dean grunted. "Best thing you've said all night."

"Nice, Dean," he muttered. "Real nice."

"Oh, don't be a baby," Dean chided, keeping his eyes focused on the foliage ahead. "And just fall back and cover my six a little better."

Sam fought the urge to sigh or to snap back a reply. It wasn't worth it.

He let his pace slow marginally, falling behind Dean slightly to gain a better vantage point of his brother's progress. The woods were still around them, swathed with the faint glow of the moon and the harsh glare of their flashlights.

Dean was right. He was being stupid. He just needed to focus.

Resolved, Sam pulled at his coat zipper, inching up toward his chin.

It wasn't supposed to be this cold.

But a lot of things weren't _supposed_ to be, and Sam was consoling himself with that thought when the temperature dropped another ten degrees.

And hell, there was cold and then there was freaky, and no matter how he looked at this, this was too far out there to be normal. Didn't Dean say there was no such thing as coincidence? On a hunt for something supernatural and the temperature went down, so maybe it was time for Sam to speak the hell up.

Sam opened his mouth to call out, to say something, but there was a flash of light and a blur of motion-too fast, too soundless-and pain lanced through his chest with a white-hot intensity that brought him to his knees before he could even get a word out.

Instead, his voice dwindled, and a soft grunt of pain escaped his lips and a sob caught roughly in his throat, almost threatening to choke him.

He looked down first, because he couldn't help it, and his coat was shredded and heavy. Heavy because it was wet and even in the moonlight, Sam could tell what it was.

Blood.

He turned his eyes up in shock and saw Dean still walking down the trail, moving on like he hadn't heard anything.

Which, Sam realized, there had been nothing to hear.

No howling, no scuffle. Not even the sound of claws on flesh to disturb the night. This werewolf excelled at the art of stealth on scary levels. Impossible levels. This was very, very wrong.

It was standing above him now, as if it had materialized out of nowhere, which Sam thought maybe it had. There was fur and fangs, of course, and a tattered patchwork shirt over a looming frame. Just like a werewolf.

But glowing, translucent and hazy and flickering in and out. And okay, he had never seen a werewolf, but were they really supposed to look like _that_?

Dean was walking away, fading into the night, and Sam couldn't move, could barely breathe, and the cold was leeching at him now, pulling him away from himself and he couldn't fight it. If he could just call out, just make a sound, just let his brother know something was _wrong_...

His mind was fumbling for an answer, but coming up blank, and the figure curled its lips and raised a clawed paw. Sam could only sit and stare, mouth open, eyes dimming, and he waited for what had to be the killing to blow.

It felt wrong, to give up, to die so _close _to Dean and not even have his brother know, but the cold was too pervasive and the blood loss was too real.

But the paw came at him higher than expected, fist and claws raking across his vulnerable cheek. He saw stars and the canopy of the forest flash above his head before he hit the ground and knew no more.

-o-

Only Sam could make werewolves less fun. His brother, the perpetual stick in the mud with a perpetual stick up his ass knew how to make anything seem less fun.

But this was a werewolf, damn it. Dean's godsend of a hunt and not even Sam's brooding and questioning could screw that up.

At least the kid had toned back the breathing. Maybe Sam was getting that stealth thing down, after all.

In fact, _ridiculously_ well, Dean realized. He couldn't even hear the sound of Sam's feet on the beaten trail of the forest floor.

Which there was stealthy and there was just plain wrong and _crap_, how could Sam be screwing this up even more?

Stopping, Dean looked over his shoulder. Just as he suspected, he was alone.

Sweeping his flashlight across the trail, he looked for any sign of movement. The trees were still and the underbrush was quiet. There was no sign of Sam.

Dean swallowed reflexively, not sure if he was annoyed or worried. Freakishly tall little brothers didn't just disappear, no matter how much he sometimes wanted them to and they were on a hunt, which was an especially bad time to disappear.

But werewolves weren't quiet. They were growly and ravenous, and even if they could stalk their prey with the necessary stealth of a predator, they didn't kill silently. Dean _knew _that. Hell, he'd seen the damn things try first hand more than once.

"Sam!" he called out. "Dude, I know I said to quiet down, but I think this is a little much."

His snark echoed through the woods, and the sound of some stupid insect answered him.

No bitchy glare, no petulant sigh. Not even a bark.

Dean swore.

"A simple werewolf hunt," he muttered, digging through his pockets. "An in and out job, fangs and silver bullets, but _no_, that's too much to ask."

He swept his flashlight around the path again, turning in a slow circle, searching again for any sign of his brother.

"Sammy!"

His voice reverberated through the trees, and Dean swore again.

How the hell had Sam gotten _lost_? Was that even possible? Just how freaked out should Dean be right then?

Because if he told his brother to shut up and Sammy got himself nabbed by some furry fugly-well, that was still on Dean, and that was a layer of guilt Dean did _not_ need right now.

Maybe the little brat had found a lead? And looked for it without him?

He had to stop and think. Be clear about this. There was no sense panicking until he'd tried all his options.

Option one had been calling his little brother's name.

While yelling in the middle of the woods at night might alert Sam's attention, wherever the wayward bitch might be, it might also alert the attention of things less friendly than Sam. Not that Sam was friendly, at least not these days, but at least the kid wasn't trying to kill him.

So, option one wasn't really the best plan and he'd tried it and gotten no results.

On to option two.

Call Sam.

Of course. The cell phone.

Fumbling now, Dean pocketed his gun, looking instead for his cell phone. Unfortunately, he had lugged a lot of stuff out here, and Sam had been carrying the backpack, so that left him with all his weapons and his phone and...

The EMF tumbled to the ground.

Cursing, Dean leaned over to pick it up, when it whirred to life.

Normally the thing was pretty quiet, but not tonight. The lights were flickering wildly, and the entire device whined in anticipation. A surefire sign of ghost activity.

Except they weren't hunting a ghost.

They were hunting a werewolf.

Frowning, Dean flicked his light up to the trees, looking for any possible sign of power lines or something that could create this level of interference.

Unless those trees were radioactive, Dean was thinking that was a no.

Which-hell, there was a _ghost_? On his clean and simple, sent-from-heaven _werewolf hunt_?

He needed to find Sam. Now.

Swallowing his nerves, he found his phone, dialing Sam's number and hearing it ring over the pounding of his heart.

One ring, two rings...Dean closed his eyes as it went to voicemail.

Sam was gone, not answering his phone, and Dean was alone in the woods hunting a werewolf with an EMF meter that was off the charts. Dean wasn't sure quite what it meant, but he knew that it wasn't good.

Coincidence? Not likely.

If he couldn't find Sam, he could at least track the source of the EMF, which, at this point, was his best bet to figuring any of this out.

Pocking his cell phone, Dean directed his flashlight down the path, holding the EMF in front of him. It wasn't designed for tracking, of course, but it could roughly do the trick. If he went in the wrong direction, the signal would fade. The right direction, and the thing would buzz more than a drunk on New Year's.

This was all Sam's fault, Dean was certain. Sam and his whining and his questioning and his breathing and his disappearing, and Dean just hoped he could find his brother to kick his ass.

First things first, though: he had to find him, and hope that the werewolf and the ghost and whatever else was lurking in these woods didn't beat him to it.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks to all who read the first chapter!

CHAPTER TWO

Everything hurt.

That was actually kind of normal-that sense of pain, of loss. A constant state, who he was, who he had become in the wake of Stanford. Because Sam's life was one of loss and emptiness, and every night he went to bed aching and every night he dreamed of a dark and gauzy world without hope, without happiness, without _anything_.

He'd left for Stanford to fill the voids inside of him. He'd left from Stanford feeling less complete than ever. And that _hurt_ because it was a loss burned into his soul, into his very being, and it was a scar that would never heal, never, no matter how hard he tried.

So everything hurt. Every waking moment, every tortured dream. Every mile in the car that took him farther from his everything he'd worked so hard for, fought so desperately for. Every hunt from their father's journal that took him further from _safe_.

He wasn't safe anymore. Maybe he never had been.

And it _hurt._

It hurt like he'd been gutted and seared on the ceiling, like he'd been eviscerated and burned alive, the ends of his nerves fraying with sheer agony as he bled and bled and bled until his body when hot and cold and then uncomfortably numb.

He gasped, his awareness rising in him with the bile in his throat.

And then, he threw up.

The acid burned up his throat, stinging through his teeth and in his nose until the acrid fumes took him over and he retched again. The process was painful, racking his body as he sought to expel the contents of his stomach in violent, measured bursts.

When it was over, Sam focused on breathing, in and out, in and out, aware of nothing beyond the pain.

It could have been seconds, it could have been hours, but suddenly Sam came into himself and startled.

His eyes blinked, a little frantic, and he realized he was face down, his own puddle of vomit mere inches from his face.

That would be enough to tell him that things were not going well, but when he moved, pain ripped through his chest. The world whited out again as he coughed, flopping heavily onto his back as he labored uselessly for a full breath of air.

When his vision cleared, he found that he was staring, his eyes fixed straight ahead-straight up, too, apparently, since he was splayed limply on his back now.

Straight up at...rock. Dark, craggy gray was domed above him, shadowed in the dimness of the...cave.

He was in a cave.

He started to turn his head and hissed, squeezing his eyes shut.

He was in a cave and in a _lot_ of pain.

First things first, what the hell had happened to his body?

Blinking blearily, he craned his neck tentatively, trying to get a look at himself. What he saw made him want to throw up again.

It was a macabre scene, looking down at his own bloody chest. The fabric of his shirt and jacket were frayed and stained, dark and saturated with blood. He couldn't see much, but through the slices, he could make out the equally frayed ends of his own skin, the gore of his chest plainly apparent.

So, that explained why it felt like his chest was on fire.

But that still didn't explain what happened.

The last thing he remembered was being in the woods, following Dean. Dean had chewed him out for breathing too loud or thinking too much or both or something and he'd dropped back and then-

Then he'd been attacked.

Sam swallowed, feeling a sheen of sweat break out over his body. If shock hadn't set in yet, he was pretty sure it was starting to, and he felt woozy again. Throwing up took too much work, though, and his stomach thankfully obeyed his body's weary refusal to move any more than it had to.

It must have been the werewolf. Dean's damn werewolf must have gotten the jump on him-that certainly would explain the slices on his chest.

But...why no snarling? Why no fur? And where was he? Did Dean bring him here?

Something was missing, some vital piece of information, and it seemed like Sam should be able to figure it out-he was nearly a Stanford graduate, after all-but his memory wasn't quite working like it should and his higher reasoning skills were a little shaky at best and why was it so damn cold in here?

And where _was_ here?

_A cave, dumbass_. Dean's voice rang through his head more clearly than anything else.

Sam scowled. Yes, he knew he was in a cave, but he still didn't know why or how he'd gotten here or if he needed to be thinking about running, which didn't seem all that practical. Maybe he could still find his gun or at least the knife that was strapped to his ankle.

He laughed. He couldn't help it. A short bark of laughter tinged with pain.

He was lying in a cave with his chest ripped open and he was thinking about how to get his knife out. Six months ago, he was worrying about the LSATs and classes and how he was going to afford to buy Jessica a ring.

The laugh cut off abruptly and he closed his eyes, trying not to cry. Winchesters didn't cry. They didn't. They were strong and capable and Dean would hunt down that werewolf's ass with or without his chest ripped to shreds.

Sam opened his eyes again, but his resolve was quickly shattered by a sudden movement above him.

Fast and white-just like before.

The movement stopped, crystallized, and then became the outline of a creature lingering above him with a look of malice on its flickering features.

Flickering _wolfish_ features.

It was a werewolf...

Or had been a werewolf.

Sam muttered a curse. "You're a ghost."

The werewolf ghost tilted its head, its dead eyes appraising Sam with a cold madness. "Monster," it said, its voice rough like gravel. "You called me _monster_."

Sam tried to breathe deep, collect himself. So, this was a talking werewolf ghost. Which, sort of made sense. Though werewolves in their turned form were animalistic in nature, functioning solely on killer instinct, they were people by day. Honest-to-God humans. Sam couldn't be sure how much they retained of the wolfish alter ego, but that didn't change the fact that werewolves, by the light of day and most nights a month, had human fears and wants and abilities.

In death, who knew what happened to the two halves? Apparently, this one was both wolf and human now, a deadly mixture of the two.

"You attacked me," Sam said, rather pointlessly. But he needed to say something, needed to do something. If it wanted to talk, then Sam would talk. He was defenseless in every other way. Even if he could find his gun or his knife, the silver bullets would be worthless against this thing. Besides, movement seemed to be mostly out of the question for the time being.

"I kill because I have to. It's my nature," it seethed. "You-you kill because you _want _to."

Sam shook his head, swallowing against a surge of bile in his throat. "We just wanted to protect people-"

"Hunter," it said, then it leaned forward, looming close to Sam's prostrate body now. "_Hunter_. See what it is like."

Sam's lips twitched. "See what what's like?"

"See what it is like to become the prey," it said.

All ghosts had a motive, a reason behind their attacks. The monthly cycle of this one meant that it was still in wolf mode, but its dialogue, its reasoning. It had a human motive. "Is that why you killed the others?"

"They were in the way," it said. "Always in the way. Night after night, they come here, but they're not the ones I want. Not the ones who did this to me."

It paused, leaning forward and raising an ethereal claw.

"You're the one I want, hunter," it said. "I made it quick for them. I made it quick because I didn't want to kill them, but I had to. But you-I _want _to kill you. I want to kill my perfect prey."

Before Sam could ask another question, before he could even drag in another breath with his damaged chest, the ghost tilted its head, and Sam was flattened forcefully against the ground. Rope appeared out of nowhere and, in a movement faster than Sam's eyes could trace, it was slipped neatly around his feet as another piece wound tightly around his hands.

In mere seconds, Sam was trussed up, the bindings tight and unyielding, though he couldn't keep himself from trying.

Even if he had been able to move with any kind of agility, though, it would have been useless. The bonds seemed to be reinforced with a supernatural strength, one born of the ghost's sheer power and its frighteningly clear hunting instincts.

Sam swallowed, looking up from his bound limbs and letting his eyes flicker around the cave again, looking for something, _anything _that could help him. The edges were darkened with shadow, and the ground near his head was littered with a rusted metal cup and decaying cans of what had once been pork and beans.

And hair. Tufts of it, littering the ground like something had been shedding.

Something like a werewolf-

Sam's eyes raised again, to the looming figure.

The ghost was appraising him with a feral smile. "I came here to protect _others_," it said. "I can't fight _biology_."

This was its lair. Where it had lived when it was alive.

"I just wanted to be _alone_," it said, mouth snapping shut, flickering human and wolf all at once. "And you _hunted _me."

Sam wanted to speak, to explain, but there was no reasoning with a ghost. When it was alive, this place had probably been remote, abandoned. It-_he_ had come here so he could turn into a wolf and not hurt anyone, and he'd been hunted and killed like the monster he was.

Ghosts were nasty things. Always about revenge. Reliving their deaths, righting their deaths.

Sam had a feeling he was suffering through both.

"Hunter, be my prey," it said, cooed almost.

Sam couldn't help but shake his head.

"_My prey_," it said again.

Then, it lunged at him, a fury of silent claws and fangs, and Sam scrambled to protect himself, to do _something_, but his hands were bound and his feet were tied and his chest hurt and he was so damn helpless. He didn't even have time to blink as the ghost slashed anew at his chest, his stomach now, its teeth bared, its eyes alight with a fatal fire.

A scream was wrenched from his throat, and he had to wonder if this was justice, if the cosmic scorecard knew how to keep track of the records of rights and wrongs, so that when a good person died, a bad person suffered because of it. Maybe, then, this wasn't so bad. Maybe he deserved this; this and so much more.

Sam couldn't be sure, not at all, but he remembered the tightness of his brother's hands around his throat, the tightening of a cord around his neck, the burning guilt of his own reflection bleeding out his sins, Jessica on the ceiling, Dean pulling him away, away, and away, and Sam following, helplessly and desperately, until the entire world was a memory of pain and loss and so much pain.

-o-

Supernatural bread crumbs.

The traces of EMF were enough to get Dean going in the right direction, feet landing steady and fast, one in front of the other, as he made his way quickly through the forest. The winding trail took him off the beaten path, sometimes into thicket, and Dean had to duck and dodge as he tried to avoid the tree branches and sticks that obscured his path.

"Stupid," he muttered, adjusting his course to keep the signal strong. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."

It might be nothing more than an errant electrical receiver, some piece of trash left out here or maybe even a cabin that wasn't quite as abandoned as people thought. Hell, it could just be a freakish anomaly-that kind of crap happened from time to time-his winding path through the dense forest just getting him farther from the werewolf's hunting grounds, where the attacks had taken place, where another one was likely to occur tonight if Dean didn't do something about it.

But Sam was gone-missing. If the wolf had gotten him, Dean would have heard it. He was almost sure of that. After all, Sam was good-Sam was _really _good. He may have been gone for nearly four years, but Sam couldn't avoid the fact that this crap was in his blood. His entire life had been geared around it for _years_. He couldn't forget that kind of thing, not even if he wanted to-no matter how badly Sam may have tried. It was just like riding a bike. A few glitches, a pothole or two, but Sam was too good to be taken down by some stupid werewolf in some stupid woods without even _making a sound_.

And even if _could_ happen, he would have found Sam by now...

No, _missing_ meant something entirely different. Missing meant blowing off what he thought he knew and follow this trail of EMF and hope like hell his instincts didn't fail him this time.

Because his instincts? Were pretty damn good. The same instincts that allowed him to cap a black dog while it was charging. The same instincts that told him when to keeping digging up a grave and when to pop a nasty ghost full of rock salt. The same instincts that made him go to Sam for help finding their dad after all those years, after all that they'd said, after all that had happened. The same damn instincts that had made Dean go back to Sam's apartment and pull his brother out from being burned alive.

So, yeah, Dean's instinct were a force to be reckoned with, and he couldn't shake that this wild goose chase wasn't really about some damn goose.

Suddenly, the device in his hand began vibrating, the reading nearly skyrocketing, bringing Dean to an abrupt stop.

It had to be here-whatever _it_ was.

Dean turned, moving his flashlight carefully in an arc around him, looking for some sign, for any sign.

He made one full circle, heart pounding and brow sweating, before he saw it. A sloping hill to his right, venturing downward and away from his line of vision, lined with rocks and brush.

Dean had spent enough time in the woods to know what it probably was-a cave. And seeing as there was nothing else out here at the moment, a cave was his best option.

The device whined harder, and Dean turned it off, slipping it into his pocket and trading it for his gun. It may not be the right weapon if this thing turned out to be not a werewolf, but it was better to be armed than to go in without anything.

His steps were slow, cautious, and then he heard it-a quiet whisper on the wind, subtle and dark and chilling all the same. He'd missed it before, hidden behind the pitch of the EMF and the thundering of his own heart in his ears, but it was unmistakable.

He swallowed, hard, mentally preparing himself for, well, _anything_, when he heard something different.

A cry.

A _human _cry.

Pain-filled and garbled and sounding a hell of a lot like _Sam_.

It was all instinct now, moving fast. Dean leapt on the run, bounding down the hill with as much grace as he could muster. It wasn't too steep and it wasn't too long, but his momentum going down pushed him over and he rolled once, head over heels, before righting himself. The flashlight scanned the slope, looking, looking-and there.

The rocks coalesced to his right, coming together to form an outcropping, with a mouth underneath it. It was smaller than Dean had expected; Sam would have had to duck his head to get in, but then again, it was somewhat probable that Sam hadn't entered it under his own steam.

A light flickered from within, and the wind picked up as the temperature dropped and he heard a moan-he heard _Sam _moan-before a scream split the night.

Quicker now, Dean charged, running as hard as he could, gun up and ready, his flashlight all but an afterthought.

He saw the ghost first, a wavering form, hazy and lighting in and out. It was a tall figure, strong and limber and covered with hair while it hunched over something.

"Hey!" Dean yelled, even if it was a stupid move, because that wasn't just something, that was someone, that was _Sam_.

The ghost turned to look at him, cold eyes and a face deranged with the fury of the dead. It growled at him, all fangs and claws rising from Sam.

"My prey," it said. "_Mine_."

Dean fired, straight and clean, right through the thing's freaky head. The ghost vanished in a puffy whoosh of air and Dean's entire body was shaking. "No, he's _mine_, you asshole."

But time was of the essence. The silver round would deter it-but only for a minute. Dean could keep plugging it full of holes but the damn thing would keep coming back, and by the time he got the salt out of his bag, the thing would be back anyway.

No, it was time to book it and run. Whatever was going on here, they clearly weren't prepared, so he needed to get Sam and get the hell out.

One look at his brother, though, and Dean realized that might be harder than he'd anticipated.

Because Sam was limp, bound legs unmoving on the cold dirt ground. His arms, also tied in front of him, did nothing to mask the horrific amount of blood that stained Sam's entire torso.

Sam's head was turned away, the dark hair stringy with sweat.

All in all, the kid looked dead from a distance, but the grating wheeze of Sam's breathing was pretty powerful proof to the contrary-for the time being, anyway.

"Sam," he breathed, and he was moving without thinking, legs numb from the shock of it. He went to his knees. "Sam."

His brother flinched, just barely, and Dean could only hope that was a good sign.

"Sammy," he said, his voice a mix of big brother cajoling and drill sergeant command.

At that, Sam stirred, a shudder running up and down the length of his battered body. Closer now, Dean could see that Sam had been cut up-badly-and that the blood loss could be reaching dangerous levels.

Still, Sam was as stubborn as a Winchester could be, and Dean could see the kid trying to look at him.

It took a second, and Dean kept his grip on the gun unwavering in case their unfriendly ghost showed up again.

But Sam's head turned, his eyes cracking open.

"Dude," Dean said. "I know I told you to be a bit more quiet, but _this_ is ridiculous."

The joke was lame, but just what they needed, and Sam's mouth twitched in a smile. But then his brother's eyes went wide, and Dean cocked his head, ready to ask what was wrong when he noticed the hairs on the back of his neck standing up and that Sam's gaze was fixed just over his shoulder.

Dean swore and turned, but was a second too slow, and then he was flying through the air.

-o-

It had to be a dream.

That was Sam's only explanation. After all, his father had been here, shaking his head, disapproving as ever, telling him how he needed to train harder, train better, be better, be the _good_ son. And Jessica had stopped by, too, so beautiful, always beautiful, but with fire glowing in her eyes, condemning him, asking him _why_.

Sam was pretty sure even his mother had been there, someone soft and maternal, just shaking her head, almost like she was wondering how a son of hers could turn out like this. A failure.

It was an unfriendly parade in his head, and on some level, he knew it was nothing more than a method of disassociation. After all, he was getting torn to shreds by some kind of werewolf ghost. Ghost or not, the claws were real enough to do damage, real enough to kill, and Sam wondered if this would be enough to put the spirit at rest or if it would only ramp up the attacks. It was hard to tell with ghosts, because it could so easily go either way-not that it made much difference for Sam, of course, because he was pretty sure to die here no matter what, but he liked to think that his death could do something better than his screwed up excuse for a life had.

Still, disassociation or not, he sort of thought that seeing the ravenous ghost wolf fulfill its vengeful destiny might be a little bit less emotionally trying than being reminded of all of his worst moments, all of his most prolific failures in the moments before his death.

He really wasn't surprised when Dean showed up. His brother had issues with him, after all, just like Sam had issues with Dean. There was jealousy between them, quiet and understated-and resentments that lurked beneath the surface of their brotherly bond. That was part of it, Sam figured. Being so close, being with someone day in and day out, made it impossible _not_ to harbor some things, but they'd spent too many years of good soldier and bad soldier, of bossy and whiny, of falling in line and always asking why, not to have some of Cain and Abel in them.

Who was who, well, that was anyone's guess, but Sam sort of figured it was a little of both.

Of course, that was entirely too deep a thought for someone who was about to die.

And Dean looked a little too afraid to be a hallucination. Sam's psyche, it seemed, was bent on self-flagellation these days, so a worried Dean? Didn't so much go with the current situation.

Except, it did if Dean happened to be _real_ and not just a figment of his morbid and masochistic imagination.

Which meant-

His eyes focused and he gulped to awareness with a harsh, grating breath.

Dean had found him. Dean was going to save him.

Then Sam's eyes went wide.

Unless Dean got sliced to hell by the were-ghost hovering right over his shoulder.

Sam thought to warn him, thought to do _something_, but his throat was dry and his tongue was too big and it was hard bringing air past his damaged chest and he could do no more than open his mouth and blink.

It wasn't enough. Which was the story of Sam's life.

His heart picked up its pace, and a pervasive cold sweat swept over his body. The ghost had vanished from Sam's line of vision, but things were hazy around the edges, so there was a lot he could be missing. But what he knew for sure was that he couldn't see Dean anymore-he couldn't even _hear _him-and that freaked Sam out more than bleeding to death in the middle of the woods.

Frantic, he worked to get himself up, at least to improve his vantage point. Even with the surge of adrenaline he now had, moving significantly was pretty much out of the question, but he still needed to see where Dean was, to see if the ghost was around, to make sure that Dean was okay.

It seemed like a feat to prop himself up on his elbows, and his head spun with the slight increase of elevation, but it was enough.

And not nearly enough, all at once.

Because Dean was down-unconscious or dazed, Sam couldn't be sure-and the ghost was flickering above him.

"Hunter, hunter," it cooed. "I wanted one, but I will take two, my perfect, perfect prey."

Two was not better than one as far as Sam was concerned, but what was he going to do about it? Hope his way into an intervention? Blink his way into saving Dean?

Movement may have been too much, but surely he could create a distraction. His brother was crumpled on the ground, but was moving a little-which was more than Sam could manage. He couldn't see much beyond that, but if Dean was moving, then he was probably better off than Sam was, at the moment. His brother just needed a second to get his bearings before the ghost decided to introduce Dean more thoroughly to his claws.

A distraction. Surely, Sam could manage that. He had, after all, been called a distraction for the better part of his life, though in not so much a positive manner.

But now was not the time to dwell on his screwed up childhood. Distraction-he needed a distraction and he would never come up with it if he was so, well, distracted.

He swallowed hard, ignoring the spike of pain that rippled through his body. He opened his mouth to yell, or at least to call out, but no such luck. He coughed instead.

For once, luck was on his side.

If he called a malevolent were-ghost turning on him with its fangs bared and claws extended _luck_.

But that meant that it wasn't looking at Dean, which was really the whole point of this pathetic excuse for a distraction.

"Little prey, little prey," it said. "You bleed, you bleed. I will make you bleed. But cuts and scratches can kill the body but keep the soul intact. No, no, little prey, a silver bullet to the heart, cut off the head, slice it clean, and then burn it all until it's gone."

Sam had to give it credit: it knew how to dispose of a werewolf, and Sam had come equipped to do just that. Having it done to him? Was not quite so appealing.

He coughed again, trying to roll himself to a more defensive position, but he merely flopped flat onto his back again. His vision darkened for a moment and by the time it cleared, Sam could see the ghost standing above him once again. This was a familiar feeling, way too familiar, and he cringed before it even lashed out at him again.

-o-

The first thing that was clear in Dean's mine was that he was really tired of walls. Plaster walls, wood walls, stone walls-_enough with the walls, already_. He didn't really like feeling like a wet noodle in any situation, and while maybe the hunt wasn't the worst case scenario for that kind of thing, it certainly wasn't his first choice either.

At least a rock wall was less messy overall-no drywall in his hair to worry about, though that really did seem like kind of a secondary concern, with some pain-in-the-ass werewolf throwing him around.

Dean's memory came flooding back to him.

It wasn't just hanging around and throwing him into walls for a damn good time-it was after _Sam_.

That brought him around with a curse and a headache and his vision had cleared enough to see his not-so-good new friend moving back toward Sammy.

Only-that wasn't a werewolf.

Or was it?

Furry little bitch-check. Enough claws to give a manicurist a heart attack-check. Enough fangs to make an orthodontist salivate-check, check, and triple check.

But the damn thing was glowing, sort of iridescent-like, and the fact that a werewolf had Dean using that kind of vocabulary had to be some kind of sign that this hunt was not going to go well-at all.

Because this was _not_ a werewolf.

Not with the glowy crap and the floating and the vengeful recitation. Hell, Dean could put this crap together. Add that to the fact that Sam had disappeared without a sound, that the freakin' EMF had been off the charts and, what did he have? A ghost. A damn, good for nothing, run of the mill _ghost_.

Well, okay, not run of the mill. Most ghosts didn't get the chance to fling him around or take Sam down, but the deck had been stacked against them. They hadn't prepared for a ghost. They'd prepared for a freakin' werewolf, after all, so this wasn't their fault, and his dad's look of disapproval could just get the hell out of his head.

After all, at the moment Dean had bigger things to worry about. Like how to keep his brother from getting filleted.

But a ghost-he needed salt or iron-and even that wouldn't be enough to keep the ghost away forever. Those were just quick fixes, and Dean wasn't sure a quick fix would tide them over long enough to book it the hell out of these woods until they figured out how to get rid of it for real.

One look at Sam, though, prone on the floor-bleeding-with the half-werewolf-half-ghost-half-pain-in-his-ass slashing and growling over him, and Dean knew a quick fix was better than nothing.

A silver round wouldn't kill it.

But it would buy him some time-buy _Sam_ some time.

"Hey," Dean yelled, feeling the adrenaline tingling in his fingertips as he pointed the gun.

The ghost paused, looking back at him, and Dean fired straight and high. He wanted to take as few chances of hitting Sam as possible, and hoped to hell that there wouldn't be a ricochet.

With a snarl, the ghost vanished. Dean didn't know how long he had, but he would take what he could get. Heart pounding, his eyes fell on his brother.

Sam had been bad before. He was worse now. There was blood everywhere now-all over Sam, slicking the ground beneath him, staining the upper part of his jeans. And he wasn't moving anymore, his bound legs still.

Dean swore again, swallowing hard against the growing fear, and he scaled the distance between him and his brother in two steps, going to his knees, one hand still holding his gun, the other hovering hopelessly over Sam, not sure where to start.

Closer now, it was impossible to tell which injuries were older and which ones were newer. The tattered remains of Sam's shirt and coat looked like macabre confetti, and the thick blood seemed to be oozing from more slashes than Dean knew how to count.

Wincing, he used his hand to pull gently at the cloth, trying to get a better look at the slashes underneath. It was hard to get a full picture, but the rows of slices crisscrossed Sam's entire chest and abdomen. In the dimness, Dean couldn't tell how deep they were, but given Sam's unconsciousness and the sheer amount of blood, Dean knew they were deep enough.

Deep enough that they were in a lot of trouble.

At best, Sam was in shock, maybe bleeding out, and that didn't even entertain the possibility that there could be internal damage-nicked organs, perforated intestines, shredded muscles, broken ribs.

Even if, by some miracle, they were mostly superficial wounds, the sheer number of them was a debilitating factor. Given the blood Sam seemed to be losing, his brother would be bled dry before Dean could even finish stitching half of them.

So, a hospital. Really, Sam was probably overdue, and what was it their father had told Sam during his first ER trip all those years ago? That he'd finally earned his stripes?

Dean sensed it this time, his instinct going full throttle. The slight drop in temperature, the flicker of light reflected on the wall of the cave, and Dean turned in time to plug the thing full of lead.

It vanished with another snarl, and Dean reoriented himself. Assessing Sam was important-but getting Sam the hell out of there trumped that. Their good friend, the ghost with an identity complex, was out for blood, and Sam had already given more than either of them could spare. But Dean wasn't prepared for a ghost. This was a friggin' werewolf hunt, clean and simple, and he had his damn silver rounds and his machete and his lighter.

Even if he had been armed for this kind of crap, he didn't know what this ghost's shtick was. Where the bones were. If there were any. So, closing the case was kind of a no-go at this point.

Pursing his lips, he looked back to his brother, who was still breathing in shallow wheezes. Sam's face was pale, glinted with sweat and drawn with pain.

They needed to get out of there like _yesterday_.

"Sam," he called. "Sammy!"

His brother's breathing hitched a little, shuddering a bit, but the kid was out.

Lugging Sam's massive, bleeding frame through the woods would be damn near impossible under the best of circumstances. Trying to fend off a vengeful ghost with one hell of an overbite would be suicide for both of them.

Steeling himself, he reached down, patting Sam's face. "Come on, come on," he coaxed, feeling his heart hammering in his chest. "Work with me here."

Sam's eyelids twitched, the eyes beneath them darting back and forth, but beyond that, Sam was still unconscious.

The ghost came faster this time, in a rage of howls and slashing, back and to his left, and Dean almost missed it, winged it with the shot, but luckily, to a ghost, it was all the same.

And not so luckily, the shots were having less and less affect. He could shoot at the thing all night and it would just piss the thing off.

"Think," Dean muttered. "Damn it, _think_."

If he couldn't get rid of it permanently and if fending it off was a losing battle, he would have to trap it. Corner it off, keep it from moving. There were binding rituals for that kind of thing, but those took candles and herbs and long-ass incantations that Dean didn't have memorized. He could also put a ring of salt around Sam to keep them safe until he finished one, but that was time Sam didn't have.

Unless-

Unless the ring of salt was used to keep the ghost _in_.

Dean spun again, hitting the ghost with another bullet, as his mind reeled.

It would be tricky, luring the ghost into a certain area. He'd have to start the circle of salt but only finish it when the damn thing was across the line. That didn't sound so hard, but when the thing was slicing and gnashing teeth, Dean knew the stakes were a little higher.

He looked at his brother. Sam seemed paler now, a little more still. Dean was running out of time.

There wasn't time to second guess. Dean just had to act-_now_.

Frantic, he tore at his pack, flinging contents aimlessly until he found what he was looking for. Salt was a standard part of their gear; they never went anywhere without it. As a purifying element, it worked wonders in the craziest of situations, and Dean was suddenly glad that John Winchester could outclass those damn little boy scouts any day of the week. Be prepared? Try be _over_-prepared.

Pouring haphazardly, he made the circle large, encompassing Sam and himself and most of the cave. He didn't want to play hit-and-miss when the time came.

A roar to his left, and Dean turned to find the ghost lunging at Sam again. Its malice-filled eyes zeroed in on him before it dissipated once again.

Faster-Dean had to move faster.

He only needed to leave a fraction of the circle open. That would be enough to let the thing come in and the easiest to fill once they split. It would work-it had to work.

He tossed the rest of the salt just beyond the broken edge of the circle, flinging the rest of his gear over the line. Then, he went back for his brother.

Standing over Sam, he couldn't help but hesitate. There was no way to move his brother without exacerbating the injuries, and Dean had no way of knowing how to minimize the pain.

But pain was better than dying. The big picture. He had to focus on the big picture.

Leaning over, he scooped Sam under the shoulder, steeling himself against his brother's unconscious gasp. With hurried steps, he dragged Sam toward the edge, close to the entrance of the cave.

With both hands occupied, he didn't have time to block the ghost's next attack. The force flung him back, wrenching Sam from his grip as he smacked hard again with the wall.

It was sheer force of will that kept unconsciousness at bay. Dean found himself on all fours, panting and blinking furiously.

His eyes lit on Sam, now in the ghost's taloned grasp.

"The hunt is over for you, my perfect prey," he said, and Dean saw it lick its lips.

Big picture. Remember the big picture.

And Dean dove wildly toward the salt, fumbling as he poured it liberally over the broken line in the circle.

Taking another handful, Dean looked up to find the thing with its fangs buried in the nape of Sam's neck, his brother hanging limply in the unwavering ethereal grip.

"Hunt this, asshole," Dean said.

It was a blind charge, kamikaze style, except that he sure as hell didn't intend to die there.

Instead, when he was close enough, he flung the salt. Unprepared, the ghost hissed, shimmering into oblivion.

Sam fell to the floor with a muted thud.

Time was short. It'd be back.

But freedom was just a few feet away.

Quickly, he maneuvered one arm under Sam's back and the other under Sam's legs. Gritting his teeth, he hauled his brother up. It was a hold he could never sustain, but he didn't have to. Just five feet. Five feet-

It came back with a swirl of wind, angry and malevolent and too damn _late_.

He lunged, desperate and wild, and he hit the ground, Sam's weight coming down hard on top of him.

But looking back, he couldn't help but grin.

The were-ghost was there, alright. Fuming and raging and firmly on the other side of the line.

But the victory was short-lived.

Clumsily, he disentangled himself from Sam, lowering Sam gently to the ground. The were-ghost was cursing in the background, testing the boundaries and finding them as solid as Dean had made sure they were.

Still, he wanted to get out of there.

With shaking hands, he dragged Sam the rest of the way out of the cave, settling his brother on the forest floor. The light of the full moon filtered through the trees, enough to make out the uneasy rise and fall of Sam's chest.

Then, Sam groaned.

Dean almost didn't catch it, and did a true double-take when Sam's head rolled and his eyelids fluttered. The kid was coming to.

After all that crap in the cave, Sam was coming to _now._

Dean silently thanked the world for small favors, and snapped himself back into full brother mode by the time Sammy had opened his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Continued thanks for reviews. Other notes in chapter one.

CHAPTER THREE

It seemed important, this whole waking up thing. Like he had a 7:30 class that he couldn't miss or he was taking a day trip with Jess to visit her family in Sacramento. The nagging feeling that, although he liked to sleep, it wasn't really what he was supposed to be doing at the moment.

But damn, he really liked sleep today.

Still, that feeling. There was something...something beyond this, something beyond classes and day trips and-

Pain radiated through Sam's awareness and he realized he wasn't in bed at all. Not unless his bed suddenly had the ability to move at an awkward and nauseating clip.

No, no bed. He was being carried.

He was-Dean-

It took another moment, and Sam figured he should probably be nervous. There was a ghost on the loose, or a werewolf, or something, and he'd been bleeding and Dean had been at risk, but Dean was there now, with him, and somehow that meant more than anything else.

So, he wasn't surprised at all to see Dean, grinning for all he was worth, hovering above him.

Sam tried to return the favor, but his efforts were thwarted by a cough. His vision went white and he squeezed his eyes shut again, trying to curl up, away from the pain. But the pain was there, too, it was everywhere, and Sam felt his breath catch in his burning lungs.

There were hands on him, supporting him, pushing him back, gentle but strong.

He let himself collapse, let Dean do the work. Sam didn't need to do it all on his own-that was a hard lesson to remember, one that he'd spent a lifetime solidifying-all the times his family hadn't understood his need for something more than hunting, all the times when he'd been so alone at Stanford, all the times he'd had to make something out of nothing, all the times he saw Jess burning on the ceiling and couldn't stop it. Those were burdens he had to carry, but this one, right now, he could give up and Dean would catch him. Now. Always.

"Sammy," Dean was saying. "Dude, you with me?"

Behind the conversational tone, Sam could hear the desperation. No matter what his father and brother believed, Sam wasn't contrary just to be a pain in the ass. He knew the world was built on lies and half-truths, and he couldn't take anything at face value-anything except honest pleas. He could balk at an order, question a directive, but he didn't know how to _no _to an plaintive request.

It took him a minute to open his eyes, and another moment after that to realize they _were_ open. The world seemed hazy, a little off, streaks of moonlight making him feel a little nauseated.

"No hurling, okay?" Dean said. "You know that when you hurl, it makes me hurl, too."

That was actually true, Sam remembered. When he'd had the stomach flu, Dean had dutifully placed toast and water by his bed, but had refused to stay in the same room with Sam. And the time Sam had had a concussion, they'd both ended up yakking so hard in the back seat that even their dad had to pull over and retch a little.

"Look at me," Dean ordered now, but it was too much of a habit to disobey.

Sam blinked, letting his eyes follow his brother's voice, and found Dean over him, a smile plastered across his sweaty face. There was a trickle of blood down the side of his face, and Sam tried to remember how that had happened or at least how bad it was.

"Can you say something?" Dean said. "You're beginning to freak me out."

At that, Sam scowled, licking his lips and swallowing as best he could. "Too loud, too quiet," he finally managed to say, chest hitching with the effort. "Make up...your mind."

Dean's grin widened. "You really are a little bitch," he said.

Sam took another shuddering breath. "You...okay?"

Eyebrows raised, Dean leveled him with a slightly incredulous stare. "You do realize you're the one bleeding all over the place, right?"

Sam had been trying to forget that, actually. But Dean's reminder brought the pain back into focus, and his face twisted into a grimace.

"You think you can help me hightail it out of here?"

That was when Sam's memory put a few more pieces together. Eyes wide, he tried to sit up. Failing, he settled for speaking his gasping breaths instead. "The...wolf," he said. It had to be around. And they needed to kill it, to do something...

"You mean our ghost?"

Sam nodded.

"He's trapped, for now," Dean said. "But I don't think that means we should camp out here. You might start missing some of that blood sooner rather than later."

It was said in jest, but Sam could hear the worry laden beneath it. And it hurt-his body hurt _so bad_, but he couldn't focus on it. He couldn't focus on anything. He knew that his chest was shredded, that it felt like he was breathing through a plastic bag, that his head felt light enough to float away, but all he could think about was how the hell they'd missed the fact that thing was a _ghost_. "But-"

Dean shook his head. "No buts," Dean said. "The wannabe werewolf ghost will still be there when we get back. But we need to be prepared. We don't know who this ghost is or what it wants."

They did know what it wanted. _Them_.

"So, come on," Dean said, using one hand to support Sam's back while pulling him to a sitting position with the other. "We need to get out of here."

Sam tried to protest, but found himself unable. He wanted to ask what had happened, how Dean had stopped it, if Dean had a head wound, if the car was really as far as he remembered, but it didn't work. Nothing worked, in fact, including his legs, which buckled as Dean got them on the ground.

Worse, Sam couldn't stop it. He was powerless, which was an all too common feeling. He'd always been powerless-powerless to know the truth, powerless to determine his own life, powerless to make the people in his life understand who he was. Powerless to save Jess. Powerless to find their father. Powerless, always, and it wasn't just emasculating and it wasn't just frustrating, it was depressing, and he felt tears of hot shame burn in his eyes as Dean caught him once again.

Dean was swearing, saying something else, and Sam wanted to help out, to at least catch his own fall, but it was a losing battle, slipping from him faster and faster. Then, something pressed hard on his chest and he sucked in a startled breath which didn't make it through his throat, but before he could cough, his vision blackened and he couldn't help but give up entirely.

-o-

Sam was falling faster than Dean could stop him, and they both ended up in a tangle on the ground, Sam's limbs splayed heavily on top of them both. Dean cursed, grunting as he tried to shimmy his way out from underneath while being as gentle as possible. Sam had always been a bit on the gangly side, and Dean could remember far too many nights cooped up in the same too-small motel bed with Sammy. Even when Sam had been a bit more average in height, those wiry limbs had flailed all over Dean. Made it hard to sleep comfortably through the night, but Dean had always found it vaguely reassuring that he wasn't alone-ever.

This was no such happy memory. Because Sam's body was too slack, weighed down with unconsciousness and mottled with blood.

Easing out, Dean positioned Sam on the ground again, moving until he was kneeling over his brother. "Sam," he called. "Dude, come on. I'll even let you hurl, no gagging in response."

But Sam didn't even flicker this time, his features still.

Sighing, Dean briefly considered his options. He could take some time to patch the wounds quickly, to try to stem the flow of blood, which was getting copious by this point. Blood loss was a real concern, so the need to fix that gnawed incessantly at Dean.

Still, they were in the middle of the freakin' woods. Spending time putting makeshift bandages on, added to the time it would take to get the hell out of there, might be more than Sam's damaged body could take. Fact was, time was of the essence, and Dean couldn't bank on the fact that what little effect bandaging the wounds might have would be enough to compensate for the added time.

So, getting out.

Dean looked around at the forest, which suddenly seemed a whole lot bleaker.

Getting out would be easier said than done. Dean had followed the EMF there, which had been a surprisingly effective way of tracking their freakish ghost, but would not be overly helpful getting back out. Worse, it had taken him off the beaten trails. Even with a strong sense of direction and knowing the car was due east, it would be a bit of a crap shoot, navigating the forest in the dark.

And to make it all the more exciting? He would be lugging a gigantic kid brother who outweighed him by at least fifteen pounds. While he was bleeding to death and unconscious.

Peachy.

Blowing out another measured breath, Dean knew it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was getting Sam out, getting Sam safe, and he would do anything-traverse remote woods and haul limp little brothers-to do that.

There was only one way of carrying Sam that was even practical, but Dean knew it would be hard on both of them. A fireman's carry was the only way he could feasibly attempt to haul that kid's ass out of there, which meant extra pressure on Sam's damaged chest and a whole lot of blood when Dean finally got out of there.

It didn't matter. It couldn't. Dean wouldn't fail at this.

Resolved, he put a hand on Sam's chest, feeling the stuttered rise and fall. Grimly, he looked at his brother's face. "Sorry about this, dude," he said. "But you can bitch me out when we get to the car."

Taking one of Sam's arms, he levered Sam to a sitting position, maneuvering himself carefully next to his brother. It was awkward work, and Dean wobbled as he tried to stand with Sam draped across his shoulders, but when it was done, Dean felt steady enough on his feet.

He pulled Sam up higher on his shoulder, tightening his grip on the arm and leg that were draped across his front. He could feel the warmth of Sam's blood as it soaked through his coat, but there was no time to think about that now.

"Alright," Dean muttered. "You try not to hurl and I'll try not to fart in your face, okay?"

He took Sam's silence as acquiescence and started back.

-o-

The world faded into an uneven cadence. A strong reverberation, thudding first into his unconsciousness, then pulling him slowly and harshly to some form of awareness.

It stayed hazy, though, and he was detached. Aware, but not. Pained, but lulled. Moving, but standing still.

Not standing. But moving.

His hands hit fabric, uneven thwaps, and his hair tickled his face as it brushed against his cheeks, one, two, three...

He felt heavy, weirdly so, and he tried to remember where he was, why he was, when he was.

Then, something jarred, and he was pitching forward, out of control. Worse, he couldn't move his hands, his feet, anything-no way to break the downward descent.

But he didn't have to; as quickly as it started, it came abruptly to a stop.

And that's when the pain began.

His chest was on fire, bleeding and in agony, and he didn't even have the strength to cry out, to shed a tear.

His body was hoisted up and something tightened around his leg, around his arm, and then the movement started again-unsteady, faltering, but always going forward.

Footfalls.

He was being carried.

But, he could smell Dean's clothes, he could feel the rough heavy breathing of his brother's laboring lungs even above the desperation of Sam's own-and there was hope. Hope and love and possibility that maybe, it wasn't too late.

Too late for some things, of course. Too late for Jessica. Too late for that law school interview.

But not too late to make it right. Not to late to find their father, to kill the thing that did this, to make amends with his family, to let his brother know that leaving had never been about him...

Not too late to fix most of it, to _survive_. Not just these injuries, not just the pain and the bleeding, but the sorry state of his messed-up life.

He just had to hold on.

He couldn't walk, he couldn't even open his eyes. It was Dean who was doing all the work, Dean who was playing the big damn hero, like he was born to be. Sam would never compare, never could, maybe he needed to stop trying. But he would hold on, now and always and forever. He would hold on to Jessica, to his dreams, to the need to prove himself to his family, the need to prove who he was and what he was worth. He would just hold on.

It wasn't much, but it took almost more than he had, because the pain was growing now, and it was harder to breathe, the pressure on his chest growing with every passing breath he forced in and out, to the rhythm of Dean's feet on the forest floor.

In and out, in and out, until that was all there was.

-o-

Dean didn't know how long it took, but it felt like _hours_. Dean didn't know how long he'd traveled, but it felt like _miles_. And Dean didn't know how much blood Sam had lost, but it looked like _too much_.

That was about the only thought that Dean's oxygen-starved brain could come up with. It had taken the last of his reserves to lower Sam to the back seat of the Impala with any care at all, because he was otherwise spent. His legs were numb and his shoulder ached and he was actually vaguely worried that he might end up being a hunchback after this entire ordeal, as if Sam needed a way to gain a few more inches on him.

He might have said that, were he not quite so winded and if Sam didn't look quite so dead. Because, really, Dean had seen less blood on victims who had died far more quickly. Sam's blood-it was everywhere. The sheer volume of it was more than a little overwhelming. It wasn't just on Sam, anymore, which was bad enough. But it had saturated through Dean's jacket, soaking through the layers of his clothes until it slicked his own skin with a macabre testament to the fact that Sam might be-

He wasn't. Dean hadn't just run all that way, he didn't just break his back and destroy his lungs to bring back a corpse. He hadn't.

It was hard to see, while he was panting, if Sam was breathing or not because his eyes couldn't focus well enough to figure anything out. The edges of his own vision were a little dark from sheer exhaustion and, if he could be honest with himself, that was the only reason he wasn't hysterical at the moment.

Because, after all these years, after all they'd been through together, after all their fights, after all their jokes, after all they had hurt each other and come back together despite it all-after _all _of that, Dean had never felt like this before. He'd never seen Sam like this before. He'd never seen that much of his brother's blood, he'd never been so weighed down by it-he'd never been so incredibly bowed by his brother's weight before.

The kid was six foot four at least, going on seven billion as far as Dean was concern, and no matter how wiry Sam might be at times, that kind of frame carried a massive weight.

But Dean wasn't even being literal, for once. Sam's weight-it wasn't in the muscle mass. It was the emotional burden. The secrets the kid hid. The guilt Dean knew he harbored. Sam was hiding so much from him, keeping it all inside, and Dean had tried to get him to talk about it, had even told him that it might get Sam killed, and now look at them.

Sam's blood, his issues, enough to destroy both of them with one fell blow, and that didn't even touch upon Dean's own baggage.

Dean thought he could handle it. Dean had thought he knew what to expect. He had thought he knew how to protect Sam. He'd thought he'd known what Sam needed.

Dean didn't know anything.

Because Sam was bleeding in the back seat of the Impala and Dean was hunched over, hands on his knees, panting and crying, covered in his brother's blood, and they might both be dead already if Dean couldn't get his crap together and see it for what it was.

He squeezed his eyes shut, coughing hard against his grating breaths.

The blood didn't matter. Hell, the burden didn't even matter. Sam's weight, Sam's baggage-Dean could carry it or he could drop it and what the hell difference did it make? Dean could fix that later, just like he could catch his breath and stand up straight, as long as they both lived long enough to get there.

So, what the hell was he doing sitting here crying and feeling sorry for himself? Mourning his brother who might not be dead? Who wasn't dead-not if Dean had anything to say about it.

Opening his eyes, Dean stumbled forward, scooping Sam's legs and turning them so they fit inside the car. Scooting Sam back, Dean perched on the edge of the seat with one knee, leaning forward as best he could. "Sam!" he called, mustering as much strength as he could. "You still with me, Sammy?"

There was no reply, which Dean supposed was to be expected, and Dean still couldn't see the rise and fall of Sam's chest. But that didn't mean it wasn't happening.

"You're too much of a damn disobedient ass to die this way," Dean spit out, pulling himself farther into the car. He pressed shaking fingers to Sam's neck, clenching his teeth as he waited.

He could hear his own heart thudding too loud and too fast in his own chest and the blood of exertion still rushing painfully through his ears. He could hear his father's voice, strong and reprimanding, telling him to get his act together and finish the job. He could hear Sam telling him that there were some secrets he had to keep and his own voice telling Sam that it could get Sam killed someday.

Not today. Not today. Not some stupid ghost in some stupid woods with some stupid werewolf complex that Dean had been too stupid to prepare for. Not after running through the woods, not even after losing all that blood. Not today, not today, _not today_.

And there it was.

Fast, uneven, shallow.

The most beautiful thing Dean had felt in a _long _time. Better than a hot girl on a cold night, better than a cool beer on a warm night. Better than cruising down an empty highway with the windows down and AC/DC raging through the speakers. Better than getting a clap on the shoulder and being told _good job_. Better than a freakin' werewolf hunt.

Not just his brother's heart, but the beat of another chance.

And Dean was _not_ going to screw this up. Because, yeah, he was about saving people, hunting things and the family business. But, that was just secondary. It all just paled in comparison to the one thing that mattered most: Sam.

He might be wrong about the werewolf. He could screw up a ghost hunt. But he would never, _ever_ screw up this. Because the moment he did, the moment he really lost Sam-then he lost everything.

"You're okay," he said, grinning stupidly. He patted Sam's cheek, trying not to let his own exhaustion take hold. "You're going to be okay. Just a little longer, okay, Sammy?"

Sam didn't reply, but he didn't have to, and Dean extracted himself from the back seat, walking on rubbery legs to the driver's side.

Opening the door, he slid into the seat, taking a moment to breathe and clear his vision at least before he started the car. With one last breath, he looked in the mirror, adjusting it so he could see Sam, sprawled and still, on the seat behind him.

If that higher power was around, now was the time he really needed to get his listening ears on. Because a werewolf hunt would have been nice and all, but his little brother was a must, and if God wasn't going to help him out on that one, Dean would just have to do it himself.

Blowing out a hard breath, Dean put the car in car and tore out from the parking lot.

-o-

When Sam was twelve, he slouched in the back seat of the Impala, doors all locked and windows steamed and he held the flashlight over his book. It wasn't the first time he'd been here, and he knew it wouldn't be the last, but it never got easier, no matter how many times he did it.

His dad said the car was one of the safest places he could be, all that thick metal and steal, and Sam had chalked the protection sigils on it under his dad's watchful eye. There was a sawed-off shot gun on the seat next to him, a bag of rock salt on the floor, and a knife positioned carefully on the ground by his feet. Every measure had been taken, and Sam had followed each one carefully to be sure, reciting a Latin banishing ritual under his breath just to reassure himself a little more.

It was Dean's first hunt. Dean had been excited all week. Glowing and raving about werewolves, all about their habits and how to kill them and how _awesome _they were. Sometimes, Sam liked to help with the research, and, normally, he might like exchanging facts with his older brother, but this time, it was different.

Dean was becoming a hunter tonight. He had been working at it for months, Sam knew. Years. Longing for it for as long as Sam had known the truth. Dean idolized the life, talked about monsters and the heroes that killed them, and, for a while, that had sounded kind of cool, but it also sounded kind of scary.

Because, no matter how many guns and knives, no matter what rituals Sam memorized or what protective measures he took, it was always going to be him against the monster, human against supernatural, and there was never any guarantees. _Never_.

Sometimes, his dad came home days late, bloody and weary. Sometimes, Dean came back with a bruise or a fresh cut. Once, on one of the few hunts Sam had been on, Sam even got slashed when he'd been in charge laying salt lines around an open grave.

And there was that time when he was six months old when his mother died.

The light from the flashlight was dim, casting a hazy glow over the page of his book. It was something he'd read before, but he wasn't really reading it now. Because the car was too quiet, and the shadows danced across the leather seats while the leaves rustled in the night outside the window.

Innocent sounds. Irrelevant flashes of light.

Or not.

Sam would never know.

His father said he was safe. His brother said he had nothing to worry about.

They'd also told Sam that Dad was a traveling salesman and that his mother had died in a car accident.

His father had gone over the timeline of the hunt. His brother had detailed how to kill the wolf in case it got too close. It seemed like they'd told him everything he needed to know.

But they hadn't even told him about monsters for eight years.

Alone in the car, Sam clenched his teeth, blinking rapidly as he fingered the gun again. He knew how to shoot it, and he was getting better. Soon, his father said. Soon he'd be hunting, too. Just like the rest of them. Getting started on the family business, Dean liked to tell him with a playful nudge.

The doubt gnawed at him, twisting into fear in the pit of his stomach. There was no one here to impress. No one here to be brave for. There was no one here at all.

He had no way of knowing if the hunt was going okay. He had no way of knowing if his family was safe, if _he_ was safe. He had no way of knowing what was true and what wasn't. He was powerless, because a shot gun couldn't destroy his fear or his doubt or how alone he was.

Dean would never understand what this felt like.

Sam just knew, for himself, that he would give anything and _everything _to never feel this way again.

-o-

It was a long night.

To be fair, it had been long before he'd even gotten Sam to the hospital, what with traipsing through the woods and hauling his hemorrhaging little brother all over the freakin' woods. Hell, it had been long before all that, with the prep work and the plotting and all that for the werewolf that wasn't.

But, hours later, alone in a quiet ER waiting room, it seemed so much longer. There was nothing to do there, no one to talk to. The nurses brushed him off and the doctors didn't even look at him and the receptionist was sleepy and nonchalant as she smiled and told Dean that the doctor would be out to talk to him in a minute.

A minute, which was two hours ago. That was all he could do. Watch the seconds tick by into minutes and watch the minutes extend into hours. _Hours_.

And to think that he thought a werewolf would be friggin' worth it.

He had thought almost all of it was worth it. He had thought his dad missing, seeing Jessica die-it might all be _worth _it, which was screwed up and more than a little wrong, and he knew that, he did-but it might be worth it if it meant Sam was back in his life, back at his side, _hunting _ with him again.

He'd been an ass in more ways than he knew. Not just for being able to let go of his father or for being able to overlook the death of an innocent girl, but because bringing Sam back into this life, bringing Sam back into what he _hated_, came with a pretty damn big price tag. Not just his little brother's happiness, not just his emotional well-being or that curious spark of desire that so defined Sam, but maybe even his brother's _life_.

Dean had known that, on some level. It was a code he thought he was okay with. Hunting was a dangerous gig, and sometimes, someone had to draw the short straw. It had been true when it happened to him. True, but craptastic.

But now? When it happened to Sam?

That wasn't okay. At all. Ever.

And it wasn't worth it. It wasn't worth having Sam by his side just to have Sam lose himself to this hunt, just to have Sam self-destruct right before him eyes. It wasn't worth having Sam _die_.

Because Sam could be dying. There had been blood all over the seats by the time Dean had gotten them there, and he had barely made it through the doors of the ER before every nurse and doctor in the place seemed to be falling all over themselves to whisk Sam away.

Which, at first, Dean had been grateful for. But as he'd watched them wheel Sam away, his little brother limp and lifeless on the gurney, it really occurred to him _why_. Not because they were damn good professionals. But because Sam was dying. He'd made it all the way to the exam room before a nurse had blocked his path, gentle and insistent with a hint of panic in her voice, _no, sir, please let the doctors..._

But Dean hadn't been listening to her. He'd been listening to them talk about _blood loss_ and _cyanotic_ and about how _this kid's crashing on us_ and demands to _move it, people, now_.

He could still hear them, even now, hours later. He could hear them dismantling the facts of his brother's life, breaking Sam down into numbers and statistics, looking carefully at the parts of his body and trying to fix all the wounds without even knowing remotely where to begin.

Dean felt like that, sometimes. His family was a mess. Between his absent father and his rebellious little brother and Dean's desire to just be _together_, it was constant triage, trying to figure out what angle to play out, who to placate next, how to keep them all together, all happy, all sane and alive for just one more day.

He could still fail today.

In that way, he didn't want to know. Maybe if they never come for him, maybe if he just waited here forever, he could pretend like it was going to be okay. Like Sam wasn't hurt, like his dad wasn't gone, like they could all just be _together_.

"Uh, Mr. Arnez?"

Dean jerked, coming to attention with a gulp and a held breath. On his feet, he leaned toward the doctor, jittering, his nerves keeping him on edge. "Yeah," he said, a little breathless.

The doctor raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, moving forward as he extended his hand. "I'm Dr. Martenson," he said. "I've been in charge of your brother's case."

Dean took the hand, shaking it quickly and without thought. "How is he?"

The doctor gave a weary sigh and a feigned smile. "We've moved him out of surgery and into recovery," he said. "The good news is that he actually suffered few internal injuries. He did nick on artery that required some stitching, and there was a small tear on his spleen, but we were ultimately able to save it."

Dean just stared. There'd been so much blood, Sam had been so slack. And this guy was telling him that it wasn't that bad? "So, he's going to be okay?"

The doctor put his clipboard by his side. "While the individual wounds themselves were overall manageable, it was the sheer quantity of them that was hard. You said he was attacked by a mountain lion?"

Dean nodded numbly. "Came out of nowhere."

The doctor nodded, thoughtfully. "We stitched and cleaned the remaining gashes, some of which had bled quite heavily. We had to give him five units of blood on the table, which is a real cause for concern. I'm afraid your brother lost over half of his supply, making him more than a little hypovolemic."

Dean didn't care about the fact. He just wanted the bottom line. "So, how is he?"

Mouth flattening, the doctor's face turned a bit grim. "He's doing as well as can be expected. The blood and fluids have helped, but we're reaching a critical juncture where pumping too much in could saturate his system. The entire ordeal has taken quite a strain on him, and we're going to leave the intubation tube in place until his body has a chance to rebound a bit more."

Maybe it was the lingering shock of everything that had happened, maybe it was the numbness of spending too many hours alone in a waiting room. Maybe it was just Dean's own stupid inability to think clearly when it came to his family, but he needed it simplified. He just needed to know he had another chance. "Is he okay?"

"Son, your brother is critical," the doctor said frankly. "That much blood loss, even when we get more units in, messes with the body. We've got to give his body time to bounce back, but his vitals are shaky. It won't be until we see his organ function even out that we'll know if we're looking at any kind of permanent damage, and that all assumes we can hold off any kind of infection."

"Permanent damage?"

"It's really too early-"

"What kind of permanent damage?"

The doctor sighed. "We could still see signs of organ damage," he explained. "With the low level of blood in Sam's system for a prolonged period of time, it's possible that certain organs could have been overly deprived of oxygen. So far, most of his functions are holding their own, but it's even possible to see some kind of brain damage in cases where the brain has been deprived of the oxygen blood brings it. And that, of course, assumes that the vulnerability of Sam's body isn't compromised even further, bringing about some kind of secondary condition, such as pneumonia."

Dean had wanted to know. His jaw clenched, and he swallowed hard. "So he could still die?"

"When he's transferred out of recovery, we'll be putting him in the ICU to closely monitor him," the doctor said, with gentle reassurance. "Your brother is strong, young. He pulled through as well as anyone I've seen who has suffered that amount of blood loss. He's got a long haul ahead of him, but we're doing everything we can."

Dean wanted that to be enough, wanted to believe in the doctor's cautious optimism, but Dean had been doing everything he could, and that was how they'd ended up here in the first place.

"Someone will let you know when we've moved him," the doctor concluded, and Dean wanted to say something more, to make him stay, to ask some kind of question, to demand to see his brother, but it was something Dean couldn't do. Just like he couldn't save his brother's life. Just like he couldn't make it all better.

_Useless_ and _failure_ and Dean felt himself trembling. His legs gave way and he let himself sink back to the chair, resigned to waiting once again.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: And the conclusion. Thanks against to geminigrl11 (on her birthday!), sendintheklowns, and a very awesome lurker. And to all who have read and reviewed, I hope this conclusion is worthwhile. I'm glad that after five years of fandom, there are still people who like this kind of fic :)

CHAPTER FOUR

Sam hadn't had a good night's sleep since he was eight years old.

After all, who could sleep in a world like this? In a world where monsters took the mothers of little boys, in a world where ghosts haunted and killed on a regular basis? In a world where people died horrible deaths, and no amount of rock salt or iron or incantations could save them all.

Sleeping with the light on didn't help. Sleeping with to the hum of the TV didn't help. Sleeping under the covers with a flashlight tucked in his hand didn't help. Sleeping with a gun under his pillow and a knife on the table by his bed didn't help.

Sam knew, because he'd tried them all.

Having Dean around had helped, but in those few, awkward years when Dean was old enough to go and Sam wasn't, he'd slept in salt-lined motel rooms and locked cars, just praying for daylight.

When Sam did sleep, it was plagued with nightmares. Fantastical creatures that were no longer far-fetched. Blood-sucking vampires, crazy-eyed ghosts, snaggle-toothed monsters. Coming for his mother, his father, his brother, _him_.

Even at college, where he couldn't lay down salt, where he could only pray each night for Jess' safety and mark ancient sigils in the corner of each room, the uncertain and dreams followed him. Only, more personal now. The happier he got, the darker the dreams. More personal. Of Jess, learning the truth. Of Jess, dying. Of Jess, burning alive on the ceiling.

When it came true, he tried to give up sleeping altogether.

The long days on the road made it hard, though, because his eyes grew weary staring down the dotted center line, mile after mile. And sleep would catch up with him, no matter how much caffeine he drank or how loud his brother blasted his music through the speakers. Sleep always found him, and in sleep, all the vestiges of safety that life with his brother brought, were stripped away again.

This was another nightmare. White and pain-filled, it was different from the rest, but a nightmare all the same. There were no monsters that he could see-there was no one, except himself. Trapped and helpless, unable to move and unable to wake. Unable to do anything.

And that was the most frightening thing of all. Being immobile, being weak. Being incapable, being not enough. A dream of wanting to move, wanting to act, wanting to do _anything_, and being denied volition on every level.

This dream would allow no tossing and turning. It would allow no strangled moans. It kept him effectively silenced and still, despite the screaming desperation in his mind.

Because, he had to move. He had to do _something_. This was too dangerous, this was just wrong. Something was off, very off, and he couldn't remember what and he couldn't figure it out. All that college training and he couldn't even seem to put together the most basic stuff. Like where he was, where his brother was, and why it hurt so much.

The pain encompassed him, settling over him firmly and unwaveringly. It had power over him, controlling the ebb and flow of his awareness. He was its captive, and every time he wanted to fight against it, it flared up, stronger than before, and pushed him down with a force that made him want to cry.

There was movement, but it wasn't his own. Something outside of him, doing it for him, without his consent. And there were voices, sometimes many, sometimes one-intermittent and foreign.

And touch. All over him. Probing, not harsh but not gentle. Pricks and pokes and pressure.

Worse, though-it got _worse_. Every time he tried to open his eyes. Every time he tried to do _anything_, his progress was thwarted with a blindingly strong need to breathe. And he labored and he worked and his chest screamed for it and his throat gagged against it, but he couldn't breathe. He couldn't do anything but try, try, try-and fail.

The despair was overwhelming, dark and desolate, thrumming through him more powerfully with each passing minute. Even time had no meaning-it never did in dreams. It was as long as an eternity, even if as short as a single moment.

But that was all it took. One moment. One moment to destroy his life, again and again and again. Finding out monsters were real. Being told if he left, he could never could back. Watching Jessica burst into flames.

He couldn't fight it. He had never been able to. Maybe it was time to stop trying altogether.

Giving up was easier. For everyone. Letting himself drift, he let the nightmare take him as it would, and when the pain rose, he let himself drown in it. Just a little longer, he knew. Just a little longer and then it might be over-forever.

Then he heard it. A voice. Clearer than the others, more familiar. Stronger.

_Dean_.

Sam couldn't make out the words, couldn't make sense of any of it. But he didn't have to. Even after those years apart, even after their resentments and their misunderstandings, he didn't have to. Dean was his brother, and they spoke a language that didn't need words. They were brothers, after all. Brothers born of parents and blood and a lifetime of having no one else.

Even when there was nothing else-even when his mother was dead, even when his father was gone more than he was there, even when Jessica had died-there was _Dean_.

It didn't change the nightmare-nothing changed the nightmare-but it was all he needed to hold on for just a little longer.

-o-

Three days.

It had been three days.

Three days, holed up in the ICU. Three days of watching Sam's skin turn puffy and translucent from all the extra fluids. Three days of watching his brother's blood pressure hover at dangerous levels. Three days of watching the respirator push the air in and out of his little brother's body. Three days of hearing doctors make vague prognoses and watching nurses clean the cuts that crisscrossed Sam's body. Three days where the only solace Dean had was the _beep, beep, beep_ of Sam's heart monitor.

Three days to memorize every inch of his brother's face, to recount every memory he could of Sam's life. Three days to tell Sam stories about when he was a baby, stories about their mother, about their father before he went all drill sergeant on them. Three days to think about how badly Sam had wanted to get away from here. Three days of hearing Sam at Stanford say _not normal: safe_ and wondering how the hell Dean had ever missed just what that might mean.

Sam hadn't safe at Stanford, Dean knew that. Sam had been vulnerable-alone and isolated and horribly unprotected.

But, after three days of watching his brother struggle to recover from his massive blood loss, Dean realized that Sam wasn't safe here, either.

Because it only took one hunt, and one overlooked fact, one key misstep, and his brother was half-dead in a hospital. The bleeding was under control, of course, the doctors tried to explain, but the damage had already been done, and it was taking Sam's systems time to reboot on their own. Like Sam was some kind of damned computer that they could shut on and off at a whim.

And the risk of pneumonia or infection, they said. Still very high. Sam ran a low-grade fever that spiked once to 102, but the doctors thought it was all part of the way Sam was trying to get back into the swing of things.

Cheesy cliches and weak platitudes and all Dean could think was how he'd viewed Sam the same way. He'd just wanted to get his brother back with the program, to help him get his bearings again. As though Dean could just do enough right things and make his brother forget what he'd had, what he'd lost, and, more than anything, what he'd always wanted.

Three days, and Dean realized that maybe every story had two sides. That maybe for everything he loved about the hunt, there was something to hate about it. For every time he relished offing a werewolf, there was risk of something worse-something like _this_. And just because he wanted to focus on the positive didn't mean that Sam was wrong for focusing on the negative.

He didn't know why his brother always felt that way, why Sam needed to get away from this so badly, but finally, maybe he could appreciate it, just a little. Because, after three days, Dean's nerves were frayed and his soul was deadened with fear and worry and the possibility that Sam could still _die _was almost more than he could take.

It wasn't worth it. All the hunts, all the cool weapons, all the hot girls-none of it was worth _this_. Hunting was one thing; family was another. He'd always thought he could have both, but right then, for those three days, he knew without a doubt it wasn't hunting that he wanted: it was his family.

Him and Sam and Dad. The three of them. As complete as they ever could be, as they ever had been. Dean wanted that chance-more than anything. He wanted to find their dad, he wanted to keep Sam with them. He wanted all the fences to be mended and just be _Winchesters_ again.

He just wished Sam would _wake up_.

Funny thing about wishes. Dean had wished for so hard and for so long, saying prayers to gods he didn't believe in and cursing even more that he did, just wanting it to happen, that when his little brother's eyes opened, he really wasn't ready.

In fact, by the time Dean realized that Sam was _awake_, Sam could have been awake for five seconds or a minute, Dean just didn't know, but he did know his brother's eyes were wide with fear.

Scrambling, he got out of his chair, ignoring the pang of his aching muscles. Three days and he'd refused to leave. He'd been threatened with security, but Dean had called their bluff and sat with his butt glued to the seat.

"Sammy?" he asked, relieved and terrified and exhausted all at once. "You awake?"

It wasn't his most brilliant question ever, but after three days, Dean had slept little and been so hyped up on caffeine that his brain basically stopped working. Instead, he existed in a half-daze, aware enough to keep up the senseless patter of conversation to his brother's comatose body, but certainly not by much.

It was an even stupider question, because Sam's eyes widened even more, looking panicked as his lips moved and a cough grated in his throat.

Nice. Trying to talk to a kid with a tube down his throat. "Easy, easy," Dean tried to soothe, deftly hitting the call button. "You got a tube down there, so you really can't say much."

Sam never was one for orders, though, and Dean felt his own panic rising as Sam continued to struggle. A monitor bleated out a warning, followed by another, and Dean was torn between holding his brother forcibly down and stepping clear away to try to keep his already obvious intrusion at a minimum. It was just hard, though, seeing Sam labor like that, seeing Sam so scared, and to not be able to do a damn thing about it.

And then, there was a nurse and then a doctor and he was being efficiently pushed to the back of the room. He could still see snatches of it all-Sam's legs flailing weakly, the doctor's steady presence and the nurse's constant movement between the doctor and Sam-and he could still hear-the doctor's orders, the nurse's friendly acquiescence, and Sam's struggling breaths.

It just seemed like too much. Three days was one thing, but a lifetime of this crap was another. A lifetime of wanting such simple things and haven't it all taken away from him. Sam wanted normal and safe and Dean wanted family and together and what was it about Winchesters that they could never have what they damn well wanted when everyone else in the entire world took it all for granted?

And where was his dad? And was Sam going to be okay? And what the hell was up with their were-ghost that had started this mess in the first place?

Dean wasn't sure what happened, wasn't sure if things were going well or if things were going really, really ly, but one second, he was watching them work on Sam and the next, he was staring at the ceiling.

Cecilia, the pretty Hispanic nurse he'd managed to flirt with once or twice (or hourly), was standing over him, shaking her head and frowning at him. "You, right here, are proof of what is wrong with men," she said.

Dean blinked, swallowing hard as he realized his throat was dry. Then he wrinkled his nose, trying to figure out what had happened. He remembered Sam and waking up and three days and all that but none of it explained what he was doing here, even if the view down Cecilia's scrubs was rather nice. "Um, what?"

She shook her head again. "Men are so one-tracked. Focus on one thing to the point of exhaustion when all you have to do is just open your eyes and see that there's a whole world around you full of other people. It's why so many women are miserable with their husbands."

Dean wasn't sure when he'd asked for marriage advice, but he kind of hoped that the answer was never. Either way, his brain still wasn't putting the pieces together. "Uh. What?"

She licked her lips, rolling her eyes. "You should have taken care of yourself," she said. "You passed out cold, right in your brother's room."

That was the missing piece of info that Dean needed, and it brought his dignity and masculinity back to the forefront. With a jerk, he tried to snap to sitting position, regretting the action as it made his stomach turn.

Cecilia laughed at him this time. "See," she said. "The problem with men. You have to think about more than one thing at once, and right now, you really ought to be thinking about how to get your strength back and not how to pick up women who are way out of your league."

Dean shot her a look. "Hey."

She cocked her head. "At least you're following along this time," she said.

Dean took a breath, clearing his head a little more. The room wasn't spinning anymore and his stomach had died down to acceptable levels of nausea, which, if he were honest, probably had more to do with hunger than anything else. "Where's my brother?"

She raised her eyebrows. "I was waiting for you to get there," she said. "Your damn macho pride kept you at his bedside for three days. I bet Rhonda five bucks that it wouldn't take you two minutes to ask about him, no matter how exhausted you were."

That was when Dean took in the IV winding from his hand. Well, crap. He flushed red. "I need to go to my brother."

With a sigh, she picked up a BP cuff from the nearby table. "Your heart rate is fine. If your BP checks out, I'll let you go, if you promise to drink a bottle of water."

"I have to know how he is," he said, a little insistently, trying to give her his best ladykiller looks.

She remained mostly unimpressed. "You're the one hooked up to the IV here."

"And he had a freakin' tube down his throat last time I saw him."

To that, she had no comeback. She wound the cuff around his arm. "Well, if you hadn't been so blindly stupid and passed out, you would already know that he doesn't anymore."

Dean scowled, and a retort was on his tongue, when he realized what she said. "Wait, so he's okay?"

With a mild look, she shrugged. "Relatively speaking."

The cuff tightened around his arm. "Relatively speaking?"

"Your brother suffered from severe blood loss and was on a respirator for three days. Okay, at this point, can only be a relative thing."

"But he's going to be okay, I mean," he said. "He's better?"

She released the pressure. "He's been asking for you," she said.

And that was all Dean had to hear. He pushed up, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed.

"One sec, one sec," she said, a restraining hand surprisingly strong on his arm. "Your IV?"

Dean glanced back it.

Deftly, she plucked at the needle, removing it. A small amount of blood welled up and she pulled out a Band-Aid while Dean shifted restlessly. "You're fine, by the way," she told him. "It was the emotion that made you faint, much more than anything else."

"I didn't faint," Dean muttered at her.

"In that case, I may have to hook you up to the machines again to see what's wrong with you."

"Fine, fine," Dean grumbled. "I fainted. Happy?"

She smiled wanly. "Ecstatic," she said, and handed him a bottle of water. "Drink that. Your brother's still in the ICU but the doctor expects to upgrade him to a regular room sometime tomorrow."

It was good news-such damn _good news_-that Dean almost didn't know how to believe it. How to understand it. After three days of all of it, Sam being okay was all he had wanted, and now that it was almost _real_, he almost didn't know how to grasp it. "Seriously?"

"One-tracked, all the way," she said. "You're wasting time. He's already asked about you, so at least we can be sure that you both, in fact, suffer from that fatal masculine flaw."

She was begging to be flirted with, that much Dean was certain of, but she was right about that. One-tracked mind. Dean was focused on his goal-sometimes it was a girl. Sometimes it was food. Sometimes it was a freakin' werewolf hunt.

Sometimes it was his brother.

Maybe it was time for him to realize just what that meant. That it wasn't just about a hunting partner or having the family back together. Those were Dean's fantasies, and as much as Dean wanted them, they weren't the whole story. Sometimes, it really did just need to be about _Sam_. Not what Dean could get from Sam, not just what Sam could do for him, but _Sam_.

Sam's fears and Sam's needs. Sam's pain and Sam's dreams. Dean wanted to hunt together so badly that it was hard to accept that Sam didn't feel the same way. That hunting might mean something different to him, something _worse_.

After three days of watching his brother struggle to live, Dean was beginning to think Sam had a little credence in that viewpoint.

But Sam was okay. Sam was awake and asking for him and would be moving to his own room in a day. Which mean that Dean could still make this work. He could still talk to Sam, let Sam know that all the werewolves and ghosts didn't mean anything when compared to what really counted: family. If Dean saved everyone in the entire world, but lost Sam, what good was it?

Nothing.

And Dean wasn't about to forget it.

-o-

It seemed like a nightmare.

As visceral as most of them were, and as dark and twisted and painful. The lingering memories were mere faded horrors, just enough removed to make him feel like there was nothing he could do in response to them, but still clear enough to make him wish there was.

But most nightmares didn't put him in the hospital.

He swallowed, wincing against the painful rasp of his throat. Apparently, three days with a tube down his throat really did a number on it.

It was vaguely amusing to him that that was what bothered him the most. An irritated throat when his entire chest was a mess of cuts and gashes and that, when he looked at it all, he seemed to be barely stitched together.

He felt barely stitched together. And, just like the stitches that felt strained and awkward across his torso, he felt like his entire psyche was barely held together by his meager resolve to make everything seem _okay_.

But nothing felt okay. He felt alone and empty, scared and vulnerable. There wasn't even any guns here, no knife by his bedside, no salt lines around the room. And his dad wasn't coming back and the bad guy was still out there and if it came back, Sam would have no way of stopping it. Just like he had no way of saving Jess, of getting his life back.

And damn it all if he didn't feel like he was twelve years old again, pinning all his hopes, all the angst of being alone, on his brother coming back.

Anything to just not feel like _this_. Like the entire world was a second away from collapse, like his entire life was shoddily constructed on lies and darkness.

Then there was a quiet knock at his door. Sam turned just in time to see his brother, slipping through.

Even now, Sam could tell his brother was a little pale. There were pronounced bags under his eyes, and his stubble was further along that his brother usually liked to let it go. But, even with that, his brother's face was lit up-a smile on his face and something like hope glowing in his eyes.

"Dude, I know you're tired of motel rooms, but hospitals, man, they're not that much better."

The joke was lame-classically and pathetically so. But it wasn't about the joke. And it wasn't even about motels or even hospitals.

It was about Dean. Dean being here, Dean telling his bad jokes. In a world where Sam had lost everything else, that was a pretty good thing to have. It didn't make the nightmares any less horrifying. But it made them a little easier to deal with.

He grinned as his brother approached. "So, why'd you try to earn yourself a stay here, too?" Sam quipped back.

"Your nurse digs me," his brother said with a flippant shrug of his shoulder. Then Dean paused, shifting, licking his lips, and looking Sam over tentatively. "They say you're feeling better."

"I guess I don't really remember what I was feeling like before," Sam admitted, which was mostly true. He could remember the pain, even when it was barely held at bay. And he could remember the unwavering hold of sleep that neither let him come to awareness nor settle deeper into dark.

Dean nodded a little. Then, he hesitated. "What do you remember?"

It wasn't an unexpected question, one the doctors had probed him with during his examination. He'd mostly lied to them-since he didn't know their cover story just yet-but there was no need to lie to Dean. Not about this. "The werewolf," he said, his throat still scratching painfully. "Or the ghost of the werewolf. It showed up out of nowhere and next thing I knew, I was out."

Dean sighed a little, the weariness creeping back into his features. "Yeah, guess we got that one wrong," he said. "I mean, a ghost of a werewolf-what kind of luck is that?"

Sam snorted softly. "Sounds like Winchester luck to me."

Dean gave a short bark of laughter. "Yeah, you're probably right about that."

They lapsed into silence, and Sam shifted on the bed, trying to work a kink out of his lower back. His bandages itched a little, and as the sedatives wore off, he was feeling more and more like a guy who had been ripped to shreds.

Apologies weren't easy, not for anyone, and not for Winchesters. But, Dean had saved his life, and even when Sam rolled his eyes and felt annoyed, his brother was the best thing he had. When everything else in his life was a nightmare, Dean might not have been able to keep it at bay, but Dean was the one standing there with him when he faced it. Sam had never liked hunting, but he'd always appreciated his brother's steady presence.

"I'm sorry," he blurted finally, trying to will the burn of tears to die down behind his eyes. "For asking so many questions, for not just shutting up. I mean, maybe if I'd been more focused, thinking less about Dad-"

Dean's faced screwed up. "Dude, what?"

"I screwed up," Sam said. "That's what Dad always warned me about. Making sure I pay attention, because there's no room for distraction on the hunt."

Dean just raised his eyebrows, shaking his head a little incredulously. "Yeah, well, Dad also said to always watch each other's backs, and I didn't exactly do a bang up job or that this time, did I?"

"Dean, it was a were-ghost, we weren't prepared-"

"Exactly," Dean cut in again. "Which is what you were trying to tell me."

"But if I had been more focused, we could have figured it out together."

"And if the moon just stopped rising, we might not have had to worry about this at all."

Sam's mouth was open to retort almost out of reflex, but Dean's comment made him pause. "What?"

"Stop the what if's, Sam," Dean said. "What happened, happened. I've had three days to sit here and think about all the ways I screwed this hunt up, and even at the end of all of it, I'm still not sure that's the point."

Sam felt small in the bed. "Then what is the point?"

"The family business," Dean said. "This is all I ever wanted, you know? You and me, hunting. Bring Dad back and do it all up right. Like we'd be invincible."

Sam eyed him cautiously. It was always a sticking point between Sam and his family, between Sam and Dean. What Dean saw as family bonding, Sam saw as the biggest risk of everything.

"But, I don't know," Dean said. "You were just _gone _back there. Without a trace kind of gone. And it was like the entire bottom had fallen out. And then I found you and you were so bloody, and I couldn't stop it and I didn't know what to do, and there was this dumb were-ghost, who we were supposed to be stopping because it was killing people and that's just what we do, and I always thought that it was worth any cost-the safe life, the normal life, a permanent address-but damn it, Sam. It's not worth you."

"But it's still worth doing," Sam answered back, looking down. It was hard to admit. Hard to think about while still remembering what it felt like to sit in a classroom, to hold Jess close. "The world isn't safe. I'm not sure it ever can be. So, maybe there's nothing else we can do."

And that was the point, really. Sam had tried safe. Sam had tried normal. It had blown up in his face, and he'd gotten Jessica _killed_. Maybe that was the price of ignorance. Maybe that was just the price of being _Sam Winchester_.

"Sam, I don't want it to be that way," Dean said.

Sam looked at him, head cocked. "But I thought it was what you wanted?"

"And I thought you wanted the apple pie life."

"I just wanted to be safe," Sam told him flatly.

"And I just wanted you to be safe, too," Dean shot back.

All laid out, it seemed kind of obvious, Sam realized. That the things that had made Sam feel so uncertain and vulnerable, all the knowledge about monsters, all the weapons and the hunts, were the exact things that gave Dean's life security. Hunting was more than the family business to Dean. It _was _the family. It was the only way to live.

Maybe it was true and Sam had never seen it. Maybe he wasn't supposed to feel safe. Maybe safety was just another weakness.

Still, Sam _missed _it. He missed his apartment in Palo Alto, he missed a world without monsters, he missed a world where he didn't have to try to remember their cover story after a hunt gone wrong.

But that was a world where one night, he came home and found his girlfriend on the ceiling.

Life wasn't safe. Sam would never be safe. He needed to cling to the one thing that had always made him feel closest: _Dean_.

Sam sighed a little, smiling up at his brother. "Do you remember when you first started going on hunts?" he asked.

Dean stiffened a little, uncertainly. "Yeah."

"I remember that Dad always gave me this huge list. A whole run-down of things to do, contingency plans, ways to kill all sorts of monsters. And we had to chalk all these symbols everywhere and lay salt lines and he always told me to shoot first and ask questions later and that I'd be just fine."

"Dad liked you to be prepared."

Sam licked his lips, nodding. "I know," he said. "I mean, I know now. But, at the time, it was like, the more things I needed to protect myself, the less safe I felt. It was like, how terrible things had to be if I needed all of this just to stay the night alone. And I was always petrified, every time you two left. Hardly slept. Didn't eat. Didn't even enjoy the time alone. I just sat there, and prayed for it to be over."

Dean's face was purposely impassive, but Sam could see the flicker of guilt in his brother's eyes. "I hated feeling like that, you know?"

"I guess," Dean admitted softly.

"Do you want to know what always made me feel the safest?"

Dean clenched his jaw. "What's that?"

"Seeing you two coming back," he said. "Knowing I wasn't alone."

Dean swore a little, breathing out heavily. "You'll never have to be alone again," Dean said. "Not as long as I can help it."

Sam smiled a little. It was a promise Dean couldn't keep-over the top and ridiculous and so very _Dean_. "I know," he said, and his answer was just as much a lie, just as much a false assertion in an even falser statement.

Lies weren't the best safety net in the world. But, if Sam were honest with himself, they were the best he'd had in a very long time.

"So," Sam said. "What exactly is our cover story?"

"Animal attack," Dean said without a missing a beat. "Given the number of those around here lately, they bought it pretty easy."

"And why were we out there?"

"I told them you were throwing a hissy fit," Dean said, shrugging with the nonchalance that seemed to define him. "Something about your favorite getting kicked off American Idol."

"I don't even know who's on American Idol," Sam said, brow furrowed.

"You could probably tell all about the origins of any supernatural creature on a whim, but you can't even tell me if you think Katharine McPhee should win for that sweet face of hers alone."

"What?"

"Exactly," Dean said, slinking down into the seat by Sam's bed. "Pathetic."

"I'm not the one sneaking around watching American Idol," Sam said, but he couldn't deny that there was something reassuring about it. The familiarity. Not normal. Not really safe. The best he had.

"Who's sneaking?" Dean shot back. "What do you think I do while you're surfing for porn?"

Sam scowled, and for a moment, he could forget that he was laying in a hospital bed. He could forget that he'd dropped out of college. He could forget that Jess had died. He could forget all of it, and just be with his brother.

Not quite all of it. "What about the ghost?" Sam said, his mind switching gears. "How did we get out?"

"Trapped it in a salt circle," Dean said. "Hard to say if it'll still be there or not, but I figured I'd take care of it once you were on the mend."

Sam shook his head. "No."

"We can't just _leave _it there," Dean said. "It's going to get out eventually."

"You're not going after it alone," Sam insisted. Because he was not going to relive that experience. Not now. Not _ever_. "We do it together."

"Did you miss the part where you're in a hospital bed?"

"You need to figure out more about it anyway," Sam pointed out. "You know, do some research, figure out where the remains are or at least, what's keeping it around."

Dean was watching him, leaned back in his chair, a position of relaxation, but his eyes were sharp and wary. "Research, huh?"

"Since charging in half-blind worked so well for us last time," Sam said. And he did have the stitches to prove it.

"Well," Dean said. "It's a good thing the geek boy just woke up then, isn't it?"

Sam couldn't help but smile. "Jerk," he said, because he needed to hear it.

Dean, true to form, did not disappoint. "Bitch."

And despite the pain vibrating throughout his body, the haze of medication and injury still lingering in his head, Sam felt safe enough to let himself begin to drift away, just a little, then a little more, eyes feeling heavy, as he gave way to sleep.


End file.
